


Love Song on Sapphire Isle

by AParisianShakespearean



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ....followed by many more, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon? Don't Know Her, Clothed Sex, Deviates From Canon, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaime Lannister Lives, Loyalty, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Pillow Talk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Romantic Introspection, Sensuality, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sparring, Touch-Starved, sexual innuendo, tending injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-03-07 23:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 81,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18883378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: He he kisses her with oaths of love. Filled with thoughts he cannot give to words, he lets his actions speak. He gives. He fell long ago, but at last able to embrace and revel, he sings love songs composed only for her. Her, with love songs preciously taken, a part of her previously hidden from the world unlocks. As he gives and dances with her, they fall deeper. He stays by her side.***An exploration and introspective look at Ser Jaime Lannister's love story with the Lady Brienne of Tarth after his arrival at Winterfell. How they learn to act as gleeful lovers do, how Jaime learns to stay and Brienne to give, and how they learn together what it means to build something to last.





	1. Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> So uh, Episode 5 of season 8 doesn't exist. Neither does 6. I had to start a multi chaptered fic to amend it because it made me so upset to see both Jaime and Brienne, and in turn, one of my favorite ships be treated so disrespectfully. So here's something I have begun to write in order to alleviate that pain--Jaime and Brienne's love story through season 8 (and maybe a little beyond :) ) I hope it alleviates some pain for you guys too! Rating will change with later chapters to an E. the story does begin fairly consistent to season 8, but it will eventual veer off.

At sundown the Kingslayer stands at Winterfell, there to fight for the living. Most don’t have time to care about the man with a golden hand, though some faces scorn. Fewer find him noble and honorable, though not even they can suspect that the simple truth of the matter is that the Kingslayer's arrival to Winterfell falls to a single woman that said _fuck loyalty._

Jaime Lannister has never held honor, and his greatest irony will be that no one in Winterfell will be alive come a day to remember he fought for something that transcended houses, allowing an honor that will remain unrecorded. Perhaps the point of honor however isn’t for others to know, but for the lion’s self to carry the knowing of it all in stride, happily and uncaring what the wolf, stag, or even the dragon think. Still, most of the Northerners who nod at his passing find him at least tolerable. It’s not honor, but it’s a concept he didn’t fathom or consider in truth. He didn’t dream of honor or glory along the way to Winterfell. He dreamed of other things, of gentle days. She was in them. Often she was in them. That used to happen before.

Has it ever ended?

Winterfell is so unlike before, even forgetting the fact his clandestine arrival held little fanfare. His hair was longer all those years ago when he arrived with Robert Baratheon’s train, and a cursory look in a spare mirror he managed to get after standing in front of the Northerners and the dragon Targaryen girl revealed a color of hair that’s no longer a golden blonde like Cersei’s, but a dull brownish color. Years ago he was glorious and golden, exactly akin to his house’s sigil, and with no beard. He’s grown used to the beard, as well as the fringe that covers his forehead. All those years ago he played the part of a lion, with golden swept back hair. There he is in Winterfell with no part to play. He’s Jaime, but perhaps not a Lannister. In the time since Ned Stark drew breath, the years gone by and his promises have turned him into a country boy. He truly has a house no longer. All of Winterfell knows. Yet there’s another thing he’s sure all of Winterfell knows, and one that is perhaps the most puzzling: the Lady of Winterfell’s ward, Brienne of Tarth, was the one that vouched for him to remain.

Of that there is a few things they gleaned, learned when Brienne stood in a crowd. Some, but not all. _You don’t know me well, your grace,_ Brienne said, standing with him, _but I know Ser Jaime_. She didn’t have to, yet she did, and from Lady Brienne, Winterfell learned he lost his sword hand defending her, and that he armed and armored her so she may pledge herself and her services to Catelyn Stark’s daughter. He dared not to look at the Targaryen girl during the proceedings, or Brienne after. One look and there were all the memories again.

Oh, the stories they could tell in this time before battle, how they can tell them together. How they have that option now, being in the same vicinity after all. They didn’t have that before. There’s only inevitable death as their obstacle in this time in between, but given the time, Jaime’s sure they could tell a few stories before their coming doom with the dawn. Around a fire he imagines telling Tyrion and a few others of the weaponless and one-handed man that landed in pit with a bear to save a woman in a dress who was only handed a wooden sword. Brienne now is a far cry from that woman, and he’s not that same man either. Still, it’s one of his favorite tales, even if has kept it sealed in his mind, even if part of him wishes not to regale the excitement of his once captor and a scraggly and boney version of himself that was nearly mauled by a bear. He’s kept it locked away from others—knowing his words would be unable to make the tale as vibrant as he sees it in his mind. It would damper it and rob it of the legend and mystique of Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth, surviving and together. There they are together again, standing in a sweet before.

He’s to be together with her during the battle. He’s to serve under her command, if she will have him. He’s already asked, found her amongst the training yard, and she’s given a reply. Most would take her curt nod as all the assurance in the world, but Jaime isn’t most. He wants more. Perhaps it’s selfish to want more, but after riding from King’s Landing to Winterfell to a certain doom, a simple verbal confirmation of _yes Ser Jaime, I want you to be under me_ seems a reasonable enough statement to want to hear, all things considered. He’s sought her out for the hour, and he’s been unable to find her outside as he plans his course. He wants, and she is close. He wants and yet they are still so far even after all that distance traveled.

Twilight hours find her in Winterfell’s grand hall. He worries not what they make of him, the man with a golden hand that quite gives him away in a crowd. Of course he could cover it, but he’s already been sighted and stood before the mad king’s daughter and the honorable Ned Stark’s bastard. Brienne of Tarth, his honorable Lady Brienne (though perhaps he’s fooling himself—no, in fact, he is fooling himself. She is no one’s save herself.) has vouched for him, and in Lady Sansa trusting Brienne with her life, Jaime is given one allowance. He hopes for his second, just as important as the first. He still plans his course.

He smirks when he finds her near Podrick, at the end of one of Winterfell’s long tables. Long ago, he sent his brother's once squire to assist Brienne. She wipes soup off her mouth with the back of her hand, and for a moment he sees his own hand wipe it away for her, his own self brushed against her. He saw her briefly before leaving Cersei, but it wasn’t enough, and the two other times that day haven’t been enough either. He was unkind in brushing her off when she said “fuck loyalty,” then again perhaps he’s always been unkind.

It’s not in his place to ask. He’s breached it once and there he stands thinking of breaching it again. But he wants what he wants, and he wants to hear yes. He must swoop in. That’s what one does—sweep. Or so he’s read.

He must, however, find the right time to sweep. She takes no drink when Podrick offers. That will be his line then, he’ll ask her why she hasn’t had a drink. If it truly is their last night in this world, at least one celebratory drink is in order. He plans. He knows what to say. He moves. He—

“Southern boy.”

He blinks. He’s seen the man that has stopped him before, as his ginger hair is hard to miss. He roamed amongst Winterfell after arriving with others from the Night’s Watch, delivering the dire news to Jon Snow. He’s one of the free folk, Jaime knew that without him having to say so, a wildling, though he does introduce himself as “Tormund,” and confirms his origins. He introduces himself and asks what one should calls the scraggly, southern boy that leans against the pillars of Winterfell.

“Jaime,” Tormund repeats when the once Kingslayer introduces himself, crossing his arms. His eyes linger at the golden hand, wondering what story derived from such an accessory.

“It’s probably very interesting,” he says.

“Probably,” Jaime replies.

Tormund smirks but does not press further. They share the same space, lean against opposite sides of the pillar. His gaze lingers straight, and he asks if Jaime see’s that woman ahead. He’s uncomfortably aware that both he and this Tormund, wildling and ginger, have angled themselves in just the right way to where she is the only woman that could possibly be referenced, and Jaime nods. He sees her everywhere, even in dreams.

“Of course,” he says. “She’s tall. Bit hard to miss.”

Tormund’s eyes narrow. “Taller than you.”

“You too.”

“All the same height in bed.”

Jaime swallows as Tormund regards her, licking his lips. He imagines and Jaime feels smaller.

“Look at her,” Tormund breathes, awestruck as Jaime sinks further. “Pale yellow hair, clear blue eyes as a winter sky.”

Jaime watches as he leans further against the pillar, sighs in his spellbound wonder. It's a deepening realization of how much he wants, with the seeds of a bloom finally bursting. Jaime knows that look, he’s envisioned them by fires as they come to life through novels he’s read: the knight, sinking into his feelings for his lady.

“A beauty,” Tormund calls her. “She is beautiful.”

Some Northerner from the lest tries to pour Podrick a glass of wine. Brienne sticks her hand over the cup and shakes her head.

Jaime grins. “Beauty?” he asks, neutral. “You think so?”

Tormund’s brows furrow, indignant. “What? You can’t see it?”

“I see,” he replies, just as neutrally, Brienne meanwhile turns down an offering of wine, before gripping the hilt of her sword, Oathkeeper. Studies it, like she did the day he gave it to her. It’s a flash of worry that he would have missed had he not kept his gaze focused on her.

He sees she’s worried of the night and what it brings. If he were near her and not trapped with the ginger. But what would he do? Something or other. Something. Tell her he was worried too? Worried and frightened and staying in King’s Landing, breaking his oath and not with her was worse than remaining with her?

“You southern men seem to like delicate women,” Tormund says, scattering Jaime’s spiraling thoughts. “It’s different for us Northerners. We like them strong, and hardy.”

“This is the North,” Jaime says.

“The South,” Tormund corrects. “North is North. And after the battle when we’re victorious—”

“What makes you think there’ll be an after?” He asks, both because Bran Stark’s words echo back at him, and he also wishes not to hear where this conversation is going.

“After the battle,” Tormund says, glaring, “because I look on the bright side, I’m going to ask that woman to lie with me.”

Jaime shifts. He expected a detailed picture of something he didn’t want to see, not such a simple declaration. It gives him pause, pause enough to question it.

“Aye,” Tormund replies, shrugging, matter-of-fact, at Jaime’s question, as if that’s the most natural way to do it in the world—merely ask a woman if she would like to lie together.

It perplexes him. It’s certainly not how things work in novels. “There’s no more to it?” he asks, “No grand seduction? No wooing, or…?”

“Wooing,” Tormund scoffs, slapping Jaime on the forearm. “An interesting theory that often leads to looking stupid. Just asking is better. Give her hints though first, that you’re interested. Let her know when you look at her, then ask.”

“And if she says no?”

Tormund hasn’t thought that far ahead. Jaime hasn’t thought that far ahead either, albeit for different and much more dire reasons. But if he allows himself to consider…

Brienne. She has options. Not that he would ever think she wouldn’t have options. She’s Brienne.

And there’s he. He’s never been an option before. He’s just been.

“Ah, I’d like to make babies with her,” Tormund says dreamily, once again scattering Jaime’s thoughts. “Imagine them. They’d tall, blonde things. Ah, maybe a ginger too. At least one. You know…gingers are kissed by fire.”

If that’s the case then the golden blonde of the Lannisters must be kissed by the gold, and though that’s still partially true for him, he’s no longer so kiss. Brienne’s hair however—it’s a much paler shade of yellow. It’s a watercolor yellow.

“I didn’t know that,” Jaime says, wistful.

Tormund laughs. “Oh, to have children with her. Beautiful things. They’d conquer the world, and every evening they’ll ask for a bedtime story, and I’ll tell them the story of tonight, and of the battle, and how we made sweet, sweet—”

He doesn’t want to hear the rest. More than anything, these are the thoughts he doesn’t want to hear. And always one to drift into his own thoughts, Jaime conjures a plan and drifts away into it, blissfully lost. In the plan, he arrives near her side, and asks her again if she would do him the honor to allow him to serve under her command. He even sees himself sinking to one knee in asking for such an honor. Though he’s already asked of course, he wants ceremony. He dreams of ceremony. It’s what Brienne deserves.

Brienne leaves Podrick’s side, leaving the hall. If it’s temporarily he’s unsure, but this Tormund speaks of asking and seizing chances, and with so few left in this dull stretch before battle, he must take this one. He nods at Tormund, an unceremonious goodbye to the wilding and ginger kissed by fire, thinking himself as kissed by some sort of fire. He doesn’t walk the direct path to Brienne, but cuts around. It makes it less suspicious.

Few mill and harbor about the outside in the now twilight before the break of night and then day. The line to the rationed stew has dwindled. Jaime sees Sansa Stark with another ginger-haired man that looks familiar but not quite, and he spies what his hopeful mind thinks is a blooming of love. In tales of knights they write of maiden’s blushes and smiles like that. He’s done himself well to still remember those tales.

He catches up to Brienne, breath a little quicker for it—her legs are longer than his. In his plan he made no opening line. He improvises and clears his throat. She turns, and he thinks he sees more of images conjured from novels that have long since faded, but it would serve him well to remember his current mission than stories past.

“You didn’t give me an answer before,” he announces to Winterfell and to Brienne.

The lady blinks, a hand placed on her hip. “An answer?” she asks, perplexed.

“When I asked to serve under your command,” he clarifies. “You didn’t give me an answer.”

“I gave you an answer,” she says. “I told you—”

“You didn’t tell me anything,” he insists, approaching her. “You nodded.”

Nodding is an answer, she points out. He’s aware, but he tells her the truth is, he’d like to hear her say it. Her skeptical eyes dance and flit between his face and the ground, otherwise she is an unwavering monument. She expects old Jaime, one who deflected and jibed, quite possibly one that talked too much as well, but this one that stands before her is quite serious and does nothing of the sort. It’s quite possibly his last night in the world, but he’s been keeping that off his mind as his objective came into play. Perhaps he and her will be snuffed out together, or she’ll live to see him pass in her arms, if he’s allowed that. The sapphire isles of her eyes before death were never what he would have expected, but he’s seen the Sapphire Isle of Tarth. He’s seen it’s beauty, and paradise. Those of a more poetic sort say you see paradise before death. Arms around him, gentler than what he’s accustomed to, sapphire isles. Him and her.

It is not yet near death yet, however. Now, he only seeks words of _I want._

“I’d very much like to hear you say it,” Jaime says again. “Please. Lady Brienne.”

“Ser Jaime, I—”

“My lady…”

He sinks to one knee. He holds out his left hand. Moments pass, and Brienne regards his un-gloved fingers beckoning her to come, but does not take it.

“My lady,” he says, a grand flourish, “I would very much like your hand.”

Wordlessly she approaches. Sapphire isles met with his as she sets her right hand on his left. Their hands are nearly the same size. It’s delightful.

“I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he repeats, this time with much more ceremony, brushing his thumb against her fingers. “But it would be my honor to serve under your command, if you would have me.”

A smile plays on the lady’s lips. She holds her breath however, doesn’t allow the instant satisfaction. It’s fitting. Brienne doesn’t strike him as one who would fall to instant gratification. She knows the fun is in the delaying, even if it can be torturous for him.

“Ser Jaime,” she mutters, and she squeezes his hand, “the honor is mine.”

“To…?”

She snorts and it makes him do nearly the same. He shouldn’t push his luck, she says, but when she orders him to get up off the ground, she pats his arm in a way brothers in arms do—it’s so utterly disappointing he thinks for one reason or other— and calls him an honorary member of her command.

“I’ll have you, Ser Jaime,” she says, regarding him. “I’ll have you under me.”

He draws a breath, taking her, all of her, in.

His heart leaps suddenly. “Oh. _Good._ ”

His commander blushes and shifts, says she should be going. She’s had to piss. He’s delayed her.

He stares. “Oh. I’m—oh.”

“It’s alright.”

She’s about to leave, but once she’s taken a few paces, she stops suddenly and looks back. Their eyes meet again, and cocks her head at him, surprised to see him rooted to the same spot.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Why are you calling me that?”

“It suits you,” he says, noting a tone that’s neither defeated or exasperated or accusatory, but simply unsure. Disbelieving. He hates that it must be that way.

“It. Oh…”

He grins. “Well, my lady…”

“Jaime. That wasn’t my question.”

“What was it then, my lady?”

He’s delighted at the small bloom of red against her cheeks as she brings up he never actually told her why he came to Winterfell, and since she’s bestowed him the honor of a verbal confirmation, he should at least tell her why exactly he came alone, when he certainly didn’t have to. When he had a better chance of staying alive in King’s Landing.

He comes near her again, trying to stand taller. It’s only a tall that reaches her forehead. Her fluffy hair adds more height at any rate, but like the idiosyncrasy of her hand that fits right against his, and of the specific shade of blue of her eyes, it’s a part of her that’s utterly inescapable and Brienne and something he wouldn’t want to escape from her.

“I made a promise to fight for the living,” he says. “I’m quite sure I said so earlier.”

She’s about to say more, but she doesn’t say more. But when he thinks he’s satisfied her, and he’s won, she whispers softly, so softly, “I knew you’d come.”

They’re a breath away in Winterfell’s courtyard. He should despise he’s so predictable, but he’s predictable to her, and that’s not so bad. They’re not so pretty as a painting, but then again, he hasn’t looked as a typical subject for a painting in many years. Since Brienne, he’s looked rather lived. He thinks though, he looks better, while Brienne has both changed and not changed. He didn’t use to see sapphire before.

“I’ve seen you,” she tells him. “I know what’s you.”

“Well, Winterfell’s not me,” he says, looking around the dismal place, at the few people outside, some eyeing him and her.

It makes him sigh. “Dying hasn’t been either, so far.” He can’t count all the times he likely should have died. “Yet here we are.”

“Dying with honor has always been you.”

He admits he always thought his death would be dying in the arms of the woman he loves. That seems very him, it always has. This is wrong, but it’s right, and it’s a puzzle he can’t solve, but wouldn’t want to waste time on anyway. Not when he’s with Brienne.

“I know what’s you,” she says, and it’s the last thing she says to him before she parts. And there Jaime stands, in the wake of Brienne leaving. He came to her once, he came to her twice. That not even includes the moment he’ll remember forever: jumping into pit with a bear.

But there was another time he came to her. He never told her. Then again, she knows him. Of course she would know the stunning clarity of the whole truth of the matter. Jaime Lannister, not the Kingslayer, but only Jaime, came to Winterfell for her.


	2. Ceremony

Jaime supposes this Tormund Giantsbane is an alright sort. Yet even so, he finds the man leans a bit too forward in the way he looks at Lady Brienne. Tormund looks at her far longer than he should with wide and borderline lecherous eyes, and Jaime, well-read, knows what lays in those eyes and what questions he wants to ask. Not least because the man told him earlier. However, Jaime recalls he said he was going to wait until after the battle.

It’s still before. Quite, quite before. And what’s more, is that Tormund blatantly asks without words, but with those wide and leering eyes right in front of the rest—if she finds him to be a suitable option for a paramour. And all of this after she came to him, Jaime, at that. In the night before battle, before death, she came to him.

Well. Neither she nor Podrick couldn’t possibly have known that he and Tyrion were sharing a drink in front of the fire in the time before, but she agreed to stay when he asked, pulling out a chair for her. She agreed and for that brief moment after she did, he thought of the two of them on a small island where they were rendered alone and the only souls in the world. Yes, Jaime thought this, even if Tyrion, Podrick, Davos Seaworth, and most regrettably, Tormund Giantsbane ended up as various palm trees and clouds that surrounded them.

“I’m glad you survived Eastwatch,” Brienne says to Tormund, more so stuttering in discomfort as Tyrion asks if he’d like a drink.

Tormund holds up his own glass. “Brought my own.”

He looks at Jaime and his eyebrows wiggle, acknowledgment and remembrance to their previous conversation. He mentions he’s heard that they call him “King Killer.”

“Some do, I’m sure,” Jaime replies.

“They call me Gianstbane. Know why?”

Privately Jaime admits a small curiosity stir, but the curiosity turns to dull horror as Tormund regales the truth of the matter. Jaime can’t even bring himself to picture it. Climbing into bed with a giant woman? It’s a a story too bizarre, too eccentric, and too ridiculous to happen, yet Tormund has an earnestness about him that is impossible not believe. Ultimately, Jaime has no choice to believe, and at any rate, perhaps crawling into bed with a giant woman isn’t so unfounded. Never the less, the story is one of dull horror, especially when his mind unwillingly conjures the images. Jaime looks at Tyrion, and he looks at Brienne—pink coloring her cheeks. Jaime hasn’t blushed in ages, he thinks, but it’s a sentiment he shares.

Tormund drinks on the story after finishing to make a toast of it, berry wine splattering against his red beard. Ser Davos takes a drink after, resigned only wine will clear his head. Tyrion, in thinking the same, takes a large sip from his goblet. Brienne’s eyes meet with Jaime’s. he smirks. He brushes his armored knee against hers, just slightly. It turns her pink cheeks pinker. Tormund catches wind of it. He’s offended.

Jaime pulls back. They can’t have that.

“King Killer,” Tormund announces suddenly, “how did you come by that name?” He regards Jaime’s right, golden hand as well. “And how did you come by that?”

“It’s Kingslayer,” not Jaime, but Brienne corrects.

Tormund’s eyes narrow. “Kingslayer?”

“It’s true,” Jaime confirms. “King Killer is someone else entirely, if they even exist.”

“You slayed a king?”

It’s not a story he tells. Never has been, save to one. But on the eve before battle, before he can clear his throat and break that tradition, Brienne begins.

“Ser Jaime, long ago, he—”

But then she thinks better of it, and hushes. She looks to Jaime for recompense, for forgiveness at being so brash.

“Go on,” Jaime beckons. “It’s alright.”

Because it was her it was alright. So tells she does, with subtlety and care. Always, she searches his face before the next development, searching for a sign if she’s trod too far or if he wants her to stop. He gives his continued permission. He likes the way she tells his story. Her voice is soft and lulling, and she has precision with her choice of words. Phrases are uttered, developments revealed with a kindness that keeps the blunt truth. She makes him more Jaime than Kingslayer, more man than legend. He took the tale he told her at the baths in Harrenhal, not changing, but adapting. And as she tells, he realizes that though he thought he’d never be able to hear the story of the bear told so well before, because he had only his clumsily chosen words to choose from. But there, _there_ is Brienne. She can.

Yet of the present story, she tells. She tells well, and there it is. There he is, the Kingslayer’s unmasking. The truth reveals itself when Brienne explains, careful and delicate as ever and making sure it’s alright with him first, (and it’s her, so it is.) that he did it to save the city from fire. In so doing, Ned Stark found him after and assumed. Jaime keeps his eyes on her. He feels the other misfits that found one another and made a group in solidarity before battle consider story. They consider the unmasked Jaime. There in Winterfell, he’ll die unmasked for them, but mostly Brienne. Brienne though has always seen him unmasked.

Hardly anyone will know, but that’s not what matters. What matter is Brienne knows and she always has, remembering. She wanted to tell.

He offers another story.

“Oh? What?” Tormund asks, curiosity piqued. He turns again to the golden hand. “Is it about that?”

Jaime shakes his head. “It’s a better one,” he assures.

“Jaime?”

It’s not a warning in Brienne calling out his name, but a wondering. “Only if Lady Brienne would like me to tell it,” Jaime says. “Or, perhaps if she would like to tell it…”

“I’m no storyteller,” she insists, eyes drifting to their feet.

“Quite the contrary,” Tyrion says.

“Aye. I’d listen to you for a thousand nights.”

Brienne raises her brows at Tormund’s declaration, but otherwise shifts, and with a careful sigh, proudly retells how Ser Jaime once jumped into a pit with a bear to save her.

“He told me to get behind him despite the fact he had no weapon and only one hand. We both got out of course…obviously, we’re both here. And, well…”

She doesn’t follow the and, but it follows in their eyes. Jaime smiles. And we’re here, he tells her without words. Unmasked and alone, even if we’re not truly alone. But he’s always found ways to feel alone with Brienne.

“The Kingslayer one is better,” Tormund says.

“I prefer this one,” Jaime decrees, Brienne offering an approving smile. That’s what he cherishes.

A comfortable silence settles. They drink wine, they watch the dancing fire, and Jaime recognizes the sound of the silence. There’s always one before battle looms. It’s a great silence, an all-encompassing one, one they speak of in stories that gives everyone final prayers, cleanses of sin, and perhaps asks for prayers that paradise or hell will let them in. He’s been through enough to know that the silence is none of that, but just silence of waiting. Wait to die, wait to live, though dying is more likely. He’s almost tired of the silence—until Tyrion breaks it after a while—and of course it’s Tyrion. Always it’s been his brother that’s been the one to speak first. He announces the irony of how nearly everyone in that room at one point or another fought against the Starks. And there they are, defending Winterfell. Jaime’s aware of the situation. For once, such irony has not been lost upon the stupidest Lannister. All for a lady that said “fuck loyalty,” with some few things more.

“At least we’ll die with honor,” Brienne says to the group, but to him most of all, shifting her knee. It caresses his. In reply, he moves his in turn, a little bolder against hers. He artfully pulls back before Tormund Gianstbane can see.

“I think we’ll live.”

No one has the mocking indifference to laugh at Tyrion’s absurd suggestion save for Ser Davos, even as Tyrion lists all the battles they’ve survived combined. Jaime is certain of one thing: luck runs out. Right now before battle is the luckiest chance they’ve ever had for their combined luck to run out, but he doesn’t mention the odds as he rises and pours more wine for himself.

“Ser Brienne of Tarth, defeated the hound,” Tyrion says, going through the list of their proudest accomplishments. He then pauses. He thinks. “Pardon me,” he asks, “Lady Brienne.”

Jaime sips as Tormund, in utter disbelief, asks if she is not a ser. “Women can’t be knights,” Brienne replies with not enough indifference.

“Why not?”

“Tradition.”

“Fuck tradition,” Tormund scoffs.

“I don’t even want to be a knight.”

Jaime sees Podrick shift. Brienne glares from across the way. She also sees Jaime. She sees Jaime with disbelief, with knowing, and then she sees Jaime with a spark. This is his inspiration. 

“I’m no king,” Tormund says, leaning into Brienne, as he puts his goblet down, “but if I were, I’d knight you ten times over.”

Strange how Jaime was thinking of the same thing. Yet luck has not run its course just yet. It arises, in what is surely one last time before battle, with him remembering, knowing, that any knight can make another knight.

It’s a truth he tells to their little party of misfits, that any knight can make another knight. She’s not asking for it. She has never asked for what she didn’t think could be. Yet there he stands, ready to lay down his life because of a promise he made, and because Brienne was there waiting. He wants to give. He’s never wanted to give something so much before.

He pulls out his sword. “Kneel, Lady Brienne,” he says.

She laughs. It’s disbelief. So much of the time they’ve been together before, he’s jibed. He doesn’t jibe with her anymore. Or if he will again, because he does realize how much he likes to see her laugh and smile, it will be in moments of lightness, not heavy moments of ceremony. And this…this is ceremony. This is the most important ceremony he’s ever been a part of.

“Do you want to be a knight or not?” he asks. It’s a challenge, and one she’s never had to face before, because she has learned to make do with what she expects for her life. He wants to tell everyone who ever told her to expect less that they should have never dared. It was disgraceful. It’s deeds that make a person, deeds that carve honor. She’s carved her path, forged and created more than anyone, even Jaime, could ever imagine.

There he stands, asking her to join him in ceremony. He wants to give.

“Kneel,” he breathes.

Without words they exchange a dialogue. _Are you serious, Jaime Lannister?_ She asks with furrowed brows. _Quite sure_ , he responds, nodding. _I’m serious and I’m surer than anything_. The party watches, rapt at the ceremony, her coming to him, accepting the offer. And Ser Jaime stands there, and he asks, let me give, let me give, _let me give._

She kneels before him as he kneeled to her only hours earlier. He asked, and she gave, now he gives, and he gives, like Ser Arthur Dayne gave to him on the battlefield, after the Kingswood Brotherhood had been defeated. It was well earned, Arthur said to the newly appointed Ser Jaime, after he asked the newest knight of the seven kingdoms to rise. _You are brave, and you are noble_. Never once did he say he had honor. Ser Arthur Dayne would say so now, Jaime thinks. He hopes. He knows. Either way, Jaime is certain, Arthur would have called Brienne one of the best.

Jaime grips his sword. His heart races. “In the name of the warrior,” he says, tapping Widow’s Wail against Brienne’s shoulder, “I charge you to be brave…”

In the name of the father, he charges her to be just. In the name of the mother, he charges her to defend the innocent, like Ser Arthur Dayne did to Jaime. If this is all his Knighthood was for, for this one blazing moment before battle, it’s worth it. She’s worth everything. He gives.

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime says, “Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She rises. It’s only the two of them in the room, in the world. His heart hasn’t stopped racing, it will never stop racing so long as Brienne lives. And if she falls—but no, he perishes the thought— he won’t let her fall. He made her a knight, yet his lady she’s remained. Eternally, his lady. His Brienne. She is his lady and knight, he her oath keeper. In the ceremony, he kept an oath he silently promised Arthur Dayne when he himself gave Jaime the gift: give.

Yet not just give, give through love.

He had forgotten they weren’t alone, yet in sapphire isles of her merry eyes that line with tears, he blurs to the surreal. It makes the one, ceremonious moment, and them, Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, immortal.

He goes back to his chair, sits. They clap for her. He joins them. He can’t feel his palms begin to sting in the light of her smile. She glows. In the lighting, she is more than a lady, more than a knight. She’s what Ser Arthur Dayne believed, what Jaime stopped believing in.

Again, he believes. She’s always made him believe.


	3. Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I think about the ending the madder I get, but writing this helps. Hope it helps to read too! :)

It’s almost time. Almost, but not quite. In the “not quite,” it should be one final moment of quiet. Yet remarkably, shockingly, when all she’s ever wanted before was quiet, Brienne now wants words.

Words. Sweet Words. His words.

Half in a dream, Ser Brienne, not knowing she was looking until she found what she unconsciously sought, finds a dazed Ser Jaime outside. He leans against the ramparts, eyes trailed ahead into the snowy distance. His left hand grips his sword, while the other, golden hand rests against the parapets. He’s more Jaime than Lannister, but the hand reminds. She used to hear whispers in King’s Landing that Cersei Lannister had the gaudy thing made for him. It used to remind her the man she traveled with and was captured with was more than the time that they had together, but it doesn’t so much remind her anymore. Jaime merely is.

Jaime. That’s his name. He asked her to call him that when he was in her arms at Harrenhal. Jaime.

At Winterfell before battle, he sees her. He straightens, makes himself taller. He’s not quite her height, never will be, but his attempts to fill up the same space as she stirs pangs of unexpected tenderness for the man and knight. On Tarth, she used to hear she filled up too much space. They used to say it in such a way that made her understand they thought she should have given her space up to someone prettier or worthier. When Jaime stands near her, she thinks that when he rises to somewhat meet her height, it’s not because he believes she takes up more space than she’s allowed. He wants to intertwine with her. It’s startling, that all her life, she’s tried to fit in someone else’s plan, tried to make herself happy with one course. He fits to her, instead of telling her, fit.

“You found me,” he says, and he makes her wonder if she’s given him a great gift, though the truth is that they already have been finding each other. It’s been several times already in a day and in a night that their paths have crossed. That didn’t used to happen at King’s Landing during that brief period where they lived in the same space. Winterfell may be smaller in comparison, but Brienne has the notion that their paths continuing to cross has become almost comical. It’s even funny how much she’s gotten used to him being around. Nor was there a period where she had to. It was always Jaime and Brienne, intrinsically linked, despite the fact that he always knew how to get on her last nerve with his biting tongue. She makes no mistake about the other truth—Tyrion and Jaime Lannister are brothers. Their tongues are equally sharp, though Jaime has often said things in her expense.

He hasn’t so much anymore. The compel of honor has changed him, the compel of keeping an oath. Still, he didn’t have to give her something she never deemed in the realm of possibilities before. That’s shocking.

Maybe it shouldn’t be.

She’s a knight. She’s still dancing in the ceremony of it, and it should be no wonder she tried to find the one that made it all possible. Still, they’ve been coincidentally meeting, like they have again now before battle after Podrick’s final verse of “Jenny of the Oldstones.” Except this time is no coincidence at all.

Then she thinks on it more, and realizes what she hasn’t faced yet, that perhaps only one of those times they’ve crossed paths since his arrival at Winterfell has been truly coincidental. She didn’t expect to find him before the fire with his brother. She did. She stayed. He gave. That was it, the only time. All other times have been on him. He’s purposely been finding her. Save one, where she sought him out.

It’s before it will begin, and it was what she wanted. It was exactly what she wanted.

“Please don’t let Podrick think I detested his voice,” Jaime says. “I didn’t. It was lovely. The song was lovely. I only wanted to be alone.”

Then she’s trod where she shouldn’t. “I’ll go then, if you wanted to—”

“No, Ser Brienne.”

She won’t get to hear that as much as she would like, she thinks, “Ser Brienne.” And Ser Brienne has a lovely melody to it, much like Ser Jaime. The tragedy rests in the title to be so lovingly bestowed for it to only live during one long night. It’s as melodious as Podrick’s song, Ser Brienne. So is Jaime, asking her to stay with him. It’s a question now of which is lovelier.

“Stay, Ser Brienne” he asks once more. “I’d like you to stay.”

“You said you wanted to be alone,” she stupidly mentions, stupid because there’s a possibility he would turn her away.

He doesn’t. Instead, he suggests they be alone, but together. She hasn’t breathed since he’s asked her to stay, and when she comes closer to his side, so close their armored shoulders brush against each other, she lets out a content sigh. When she utters “thank you,” she utters a thanks both for his gift of the ceremony earlier, her knighthood, and for his want to be with her.

“There’s no need to thank me,” he says, but how there is.

Time passes. They simply are. They’re like islands content to be near, alone with their own thoughts yet not quite alone. She mentions this might be the only time in their entire history together that he hasn’t blabbered, and he chuckles in knowing—he’s not unaware of himself—asking if he would like to tell her a story instead, to fill up that empty space that rests between them as they stand outside Winterfell on the ramparts.

“Though I’m afraid,” he sees fit to mention, “my stories aren’t so entertaining as yours.”

“Why did you want to speak of the bear?” she wonders, thinking of her in truth, clumsy retelling earlier.

“It’s a good story,” he says.

“But it wasn’t such a grand feat,” she insists. As far as she is concerned anyway, especially compared to his other deeds.

Jaime surprises her with a merry laugh. “If you think almost getting eaten by a bear isn’t that exciting,” he says, “you have interesting things to tell me later.”

Later. It gives her pause. She inquires about it, “later.”

His eyes soften. “Perhaps my brother’s optimism rubbed off on me.”

She’s been so focused on the now, convinced herself that she’ll die honorably on the field sometime in the night that the possibility of “later,” hasn’t been one she’s considered. But Ser Jaime and now Ser Brienne, telling stories…later?

Later has suddenly become such a grand word. It’s a word of possibilities, of promises, of stories. Later.

“I don’t know of course,” he says. “I never imagined dying like this though, at Winterfell. Forgive my optimism.”

She supposes a knight such as Ser Jaime, and now herself would oft imagine how they would die. For honor, for the seven kingdoms, on a grassy and sunlit place perhaps. Brienne herself used to think finding Sansa would be an impossible task, and she would travel the entire seven kingdoms, from the wall to Dorne to find her. If that was what she must do, she would. Yet she never imagined a death. Not until this night.

“You said earlier,” she remembers, and she’s forced to say the rest before she can think better of it, “that you used to imagine dying in the arms of a woman you love.”

“I did,” he recalls.

“Who would she be?”

He deflects, he’s always been quite a deflector, asks what makes her think he’s thought of who the woman would be.

“Well, if this was not the way you imagined it, dying in Winterfell against an army of the dead, and frankly,” she adds, “I can’t imagine how anyone would think that would be their end…it would follow that you’ve thought of the woman at least a little, to have such a romantic ideal.”

“Clever,” he says, after a pause, considering.

She grins. “They don’t make stupid knights.”

“My sister would disagree.”

Cersei. Brienne thinks she hides her discomfort well, and she prays that this won’t damper him, damper them. “No, you’re not stupid,” Jaime assures, which runs contrary to what he may have once said. Everything about him has been contrary, so far. Yet one indirect mention of Cersei, of before, one, and Brienne must admit she’s twisted with revulsion. It’s dishonorable to feel it, more dishonorable not to admit it.

Why did she ask such a thing in the first place? She knows the answer he would give about his imagined woman. It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Westeros about the Lannister twins. Of course he would imagine her. Her. He has no reason not to imagine Cersei.

And yet—

Yet…

No. She should imagine the twins. though it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. But it’s always been the two of them, she sees no reason why it shouldn’t be in the end.

Except it wasn’t always Jaime and Cersei. Once it was Jaime and Brienne. Her once captive, and him her savior, twice over.

It’s Jaime and Brienne now. Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne now. Beautiful, before death, before the dawn, now. But…

“No, I’m not stupid,” Brienne says. “And I know that—"

“I left her,” he plainly states. “Rode all this way to—"

“To die in the North,” she says quickly before she can entertain or dream of such strange notions of him coming for her, “to die with honor, fighting against something that goes beyond houses. I think it would suit you.”

“Fulfilling a promise suits me just as well.”

“She’s your queen,” Brienne says, stupidly again, though at least she has the wherewithal not to mention the name. “Isn’t that what knights do?” she asks, continuing. “Don’t they serve the seven kingdoms, serve their king or queen?”

“Stories of old say they serve their ladies as well,” he entertains.

Two can play that game. “Stories of old say many things, like washing your feet in winter can cause a cold.”

“That is…possible,” Jaime says, scratching the back of his neck, shifting. “But I don’t know. I’ve always put stock in them.”

He leans in closer. The long line of her body brushes up against his. Her heart, ridiculously, is racing.

“It looks like you’re my lady, Ser Brienne,” Jaime says.

She’s not cruel enough to point out she’s the best he’s got in this situation. Though she does try to protest. He stops her, pointing a finger, smirking.

Cersei was wrong. She was always wrong about her brother. Jaime isn’t of dull wit. They don’t make stupid knights after all, particularly one such as Arthur Dayne. Jaime sees, he knows to look beyond the surface. Because of that, he understands that Brienne resigned herself to not want or aspire to be a knight because of tradition. She knew to stay and not tread where she wouldn’t be welcome. She learned to make do with serving others, with protecting the ones she loved. Ever since she was a girl, and her father threw that ball to try to make a match for her, and those boys jeered and mocked her, she couldn’t hope to be a lady. She learned to be somewhere between. She learned not to aspire to be someone’s lady.

And yet Jaime Lannister tells her on the eve before battle, that she is his lady.

“I’m a knight,” she says, because he has made it so.

“Lady and a knight,” he amends, and for once, someone doesn’t force her to fit or place her between, he places her as both.

It shouldn’t be. Why is he telling her now? Why is he telling her after so many years of narrowness that the world is wider? She clamps her eyes shut, overwhelmed. She cracks inside yet remains outwardly a knight.

Her thoughts betray her, break her composure. “Why do you do this?” she nearly demands, eyes fluttering open. “Why do you mock me after—”

“I’m not mocking Brienne,” he says, gentle. “I—"

She holds her hands out, ceasing his talk. Would this be too much to hear? She can’t risk it when they’re so close to the battle, and Jaime is to serve under her. Gods, she said that earlier, I would like you to be under me. What was she thinking? Did he take that meaning in another way that she intended? Jaime would do that. It would be so like him. Would it be like him to laugh at it? She says she knows him and yet the image of Jaime dangling that notion in front of her mockingly—teasing like they used to when she was a girl flits in her mind cruelly.

But she knows Ser Jaime. She stood in front of the Lords of the North, in front of Sansa, and in front of Daenerys Targaryen, proclaiming that she knew Ser Jaime. She wouldn’t lie. It’s not honorable, and she doesn’t ever lie. She does know him. At the baths at Harrenhal, he saw how mocking Renly hurt her, and he hasn’t, not anymore. He gibes, but he doesn’t hurt. He gives. He’s been giving since he arrived at Winterfell.

He stands near her side. His eyes are soft. He makes her think thoughts she has no coherent forms or words to. There is one however, one she can see clearly. The two of them dancing and swaying. It’s ridiculous, silly, yet she can see it clear as day, the two of them dancing horribly to lutes and drums.

“Give me your hand,” he whispers.

She blinks. “What? I—”

“I would very much like your hand.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrow, though they’re still soft. He resembles not a proud lion, but a kitten with fringe who asks for affection. When she slowly gives him what he has so desperately asked for—twice at that in that day and now night, she half expects him to bend a knee like before. When he doesn’t, it dawns on her that the sight of him on his knees, for her, was utterly thrilling when it happened.

“Cold hand,” he mutters, bringing it to his lips, blowing his warm breath on it.

“Jaime, was this what you were going to do? Because—"

“Shhh, my lady,” he beckons before she can mention she can warm her own hand. His thumb brushes against her digits. His beard prickles her, and just when she’s at the point where she’s given up where this thread of motions will go, she feels the warm, yet delicate press of his lips against her skin.

He gives another, and then a last one. He still holds her hand after, allowing the gift of the bestowed kiss to prolong. He’s kissed her hand, and she realizes it was one of the unformed images of her mind, right next to the one of the two of them dancing.

They stand there. They dance in each other’s eyes.

He grins. “I hear this is what knights do,” he says, speaking of the kiss.

He’s not ready to let go. Neither is she. Will she ever, now that she’s had him?

“I hear that’s what lovers do,” she says, though she wouldn’t know for sure—she’s only read. They dance, she’s read. They act merry, spend time together. Give each other gifts, look at each other fondly. They make love.

“They do more,” Jaime says, knowing her as she knows him, following her thoughts. “Or so I hear.”

She doesn’t have to bend to kiss him. She kisses him on his bearded cheek, lightly and sweetly, not long enough to entice or do anything more than thank him for everything. She barely has time to register the way his eyes follow her, the way he fits to her, before the cruel, cacophonous call of the horn fills the empty space, and they both sink into their spaces, back into the cruel reality of what they have sworn to do. It’s time now, the before is done. What a wonderful before.

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime whispers, “I—”

She shakes her head before he can finish. She wants no thanks, no goodbyes or parting words. She wants only them.

“Later,” she whispers, and he nods. He knows.

Later, she says, and their world is suddenly not so cruel anymore. Later. Such a word that’s all in an instant her favorite word. It’s filled with promises. And now, it’s filled with a hopeful vow.

Later.


	4. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with how the Long Night episode plays out...felt I should mention :)

Jaime Lannister is many things. He’s aware. There are none like him, only him. He’s accustomed to that and himself, all facets of him.

He’s afraid of fire. He sees fire in his nightmares, fire that reminds him if Cersei and her golden hair that resembles flame in certain lighting, flames that spilled onto the white pillows. He used to treasure it, until he didn’t. It wasn’t often, for obvious reasons, that he could indulge in staying with her till morn. Then one morning he woke from a nightmare. It was an old one he often dreamt, Aerys rising from the ashes like a dragon, rising from flame. Cersei chided him for waking her, wondered why he woke in a cold sweat. What could you have possibly seen? Snap out of it, she demanded. He remembered that morn well, even then. How her hair looked more red than gold that morning. It looked like the flames that Aerys would have had his pyromancer conjure, that Danearys created with her dragon before Jaime tried to end it then and there in battle when she was on the field those months ago.

That morning with Cersei and her hair of flame, it wasn’t what started the descent. It started earlier. It was merely a reminder. Yet he couldn’t look at her again without thinking of the fire.

Fire was his fear, fire and flame. He never thought he would fear the sight of a gradual flame that would slowly snuff out, dread flickering embers. Yet he stands by Ser Brienne’s side—he’s pledged himself to her, and he sinks as slowly the fire extinguishes until it’s more gradual and gradual until they’re all snuffed out. And then there is no more fire. Only he, and only Brienne, with Podrick to the right of her. Hundreds of Northmen behind them cannot blind Jaime to the fact that he and Brienne are islands.

They share a look. She nods. She shouts at them to stand their ground.

It begins. He stands his ground, the dead men and wights overwhelming him but not snuffing him out, not yet. He remembers who he is. He’s a swordsman. He’s a swordsman who lost his dominant hand and still calls himself a warrior, even though he’s not the fighter he used to be. Even the most unskilled can see it. Still he carried it, “warrior” as well as “Kingslayer” and “Oathbreaker.” He wore it like a mask, but always, he wore it well. He was so accustomed it morphed from a mask and costume to reality. But Brienne...

She took it off that night. No more mask, only Jaime Lannister, only him. And there are no other men like him.

He’s still alive.

He’s weary yet not quite beaten, but he sinks when he realizes it’s only the beginning. _Stay alive_ , he chants. _Stay alive,_ protect Podrick. Protect Brienne. Protect your lady. He comes alight when on the brink, Daenerys Targaryen, atop her dragon, lights the sky. It’s fire he welcomes, blesses even. Her fire cuts a line of dead men down—some, but not enough. It’s only a brief reprieve before he’s breathless again, dancing, lunging, huffing, screaming. It’s feral. He’s unleashed, and he’s not unlike every other soul near him that doesn’t take that proper creed of the swordsman, that upholds the gentle dance and musical clink of swords. There is no time for that, and shared in the hum of battle is that one thought, one chant. _Stay alive, stay alive._

It becomes mechanical, this ungainly and feral movement. He grows not accustomed to it, but accepts the dull ache layered underneath adrenaline, as if his body had trained for this one final dance. Still, he’s astounded when the movements become second nature, when he shifts and immerses himself into the dance and allows his mind to dance too. Dreamlike, images play as he slashes and moves from his childhood to adulthood. He’s making snowballs in the Winter, then he’s hearing his brother’s jibes and his father’s words of family. He sees the aftermath of his mother’s death, and all of Casterly Rock in black. The whole lot of them were like ghosts back then. All of that he sees, nearly relives. He sees the early days with Cersei. He sees the days when they were new. If he could insert himself into his past narratives, he would scream at himself: no, no, no. Don’t. Don’t ever. Love that should have never been doesn’t taste sweeter, he would have told himself. It’s poison.

Oh, to go back. It was all for naught, and the remnants of Cersei’s taste isn’t sweet. To go back. He would go back, he would, knowing what he knows now about Tommen and Myrcella and their fate. He could have saved them from their fate had he and Cersei never been. They were the best parts of the two of them. And now...

There is one thing. One other. But he’s never properly mourned for his son and daughter.

Cersei, Cersei, _Cersei_. The battle conjures more images of her. He pours himself further into the dance, hacks one of the wights in near two with all the strength of his left hand to forget her vile taste. Come back, he tells himself, but how easily it is to remember, how too easily it was to grow accustomed to the feel of that woman and her certain matters and certain kisses. In his earliest years of her prodding exploration and demands, he learned her kisses were all a taking and demand. He adapted to fit. She took when she kissed, and he had to be equally as fervent. The lion and lioness, laying together, always exchanged and took, with the lion sometimes changing and tempering into not a lion anymore, but a wounded cub. All this during battle is all thoughts he has. Thoughts of sex, fucking, everything before. But maybe that’s all battle and swordplay actually is—fucking in another form. Cersei, who fucks and never makes love, would be a formidable opponent on the field. He makes no mistake about it.

That thought pattern blossoms, and it continues to dawn on him why he thinks of his past self with her during battle. It was all take with Cersei, even when she gave. It was all to hear him, all to know she was the only one who could make him feel that way. It shouldn’t have been, and it shouldn’t have been, and he takes his rage and fire at himself and fights with all the strength he can muster. It’s unlocked within him, finally, a key forged from the things he used to read about knights and romances, and Brienne. Love, and give through love. Love and worship and kiss sweetly with gentle words.

Brienne rings through his thoughts, scattering all fire amidst the Targaryen girl’s fire. Brienne. Gentle, gentler than Cersei. Her earlier kiss was soft against his bearded cheek. There was only give in her kiss, no take. She kissed him and she stood with him, and earlier, he knighted her in the armor he once gave her when he sent her to find Sansa Stark. He didn’t think of it then, but he thinks of it now, and how it fit her well, and how she still carried the glow of the ceremony before. Him and Brienne. It wasn’t like a battle because it was never supposed to be like one. Even when it was in a sense, and she was his captor, it didn’t feel as this moment on the field surrounded by fire and walking dead men bent on killing them all. Brienne taught that kisses are tokens of affections, giving and not taking.

Brienne…Brienne…

_Brienne!_

He cannot see her. He sees bearded Northmen and Unsullied soldiers, but there is no Brienne, or Podrick for that matter. Fuck, she loves that boy, though she’s never said so. But Jaime knows.

Where is she? Where is Podrick? Where is his family?

Before he can think of the word his mind has chose, family, he hears her scream. He pulls himself out of his dreamlike and unbidden thoughts and fully into the fiery present. He can’t see her and he should see her—she’s the tallest one. He scrambles, looking everywhere, even the fucking sky, but she is nowhere until her voice calls to him. He calls her name as loudly as he can, Brienne, and it’s finally below where he hears her. She’s surrounded, pinned to the ground and there’s too many tumbling against her and pinning her down. His sword impales one and he yanks off another, and then another. He’s being helped—Podrick? He thinks so, they have been a family this whole time, a unit, and he quickly pats him on the arm before he takes Brienne’s hand and helps her up. He steadies her as she steadies him. Her face is covered in blood and scratches, and this reprieve is enough to make him remember he’s tired…so tired and weary…if he’s to die, please above, let him die in the arms of a woman he loves…

“Jaime,” she says, squeezing his arm, “we have to fight…we have to move…”

“Brienne,” his gloved hand moves to cup her cheek. He wants to see sapphire, he wants to see her eyes.

He musters a grin. “You’re wearing the armor I had made for you,” he says.

There’s a laugh, and a twinkle in her blue, sapphire eyes. “You got the measurements right. It fits. It always has.”

“I always knew.”

They drift closer. “Brienne,” he rasps, heart racing from battle and naturally, from her. “Brienne, I—”

“We have to go!”

It’s Podrick. He tugs Jaime’s arm and he tugs Brienne’s arm. Blurred forms of the Northmen under Brienne’s command refine in his vision, but there’s no more glow of orange flame from Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon. He gave up everything to prevent fire. He wishes for it now, Aery’s fire, Daenery’s fire, fire, fire.

There’s no fire. There’s only a deadly blue, a cruel, dull muddy blue that’s so unlike Brienne’s blue that’s like sapphire. It’s cold, he can feel it to his bones even though he’s covered in heavy armor, and Brienne is tugging at him, telling him they must continue to move. They must fall back.

“Fall back!” she shouts, to her command, “Fall back!”

His voice joins her. They fall inside the gates of Winterfell, and hundreds of men tumble inside the gates, so many that Jaime cannot count. He sees Brienne from across the way, and she is fire. He is not afraid of her fire. But she’s always been more water than fire.

“We can’t fight them, we can’t do it…”

Someone pulls Jaime. It’s a bearded, larger man who he may have seen around Ned Stark’s bastard around Winterfell. If the man sees the Kingslayer and Oathbreaker there is no flash of recognition, though they are all the same now and it matters not who anyone is before this—Unsullied, Northman, his own self—they all fight for the living against the dead. There’s no Houses or country, only them versus us.

“Pull yourself together!” Jaime orders. “We can’t give up, we have to go on!”

“It’s hopeless,” the man stutters. “The trenches—why haven’t the trenches been lit?”

He recalls the trenches and what Brienne said. She told him and the rest of the left flank under her command what would happen. If— or when—they needed to fall back to Winterfell, Davos Seaworth would light the signal. Dragon fire would light the trenches and allow a barrier between the fortress and the dead.

But there is no fire, only cold, he sees it as the rest of the men shuffle through the gates.

He doesn’t let himself panic, not yet. Then he peers upward, and he sees the arches lighting arrows. “It’ll be alright,” Jaime promises the man, the man who needs desperate reassurances. “It’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that, you—"

“Wait,” Jaime breathes, realizing there’s one thing he doesn’t know, “what’s your name?”

“Sss—Sam.”

“My name’s Jaime.”

“Jaime…”

Now Sam sees the Kingslayer, sees him for who he really is, though that’s not him anymore. “You could have stayed!” he stupidly says, which is an obvious fact he’s thought of many times but wouldn’t trade for anything, “why didn’t you bloody stay?”

“I have people I care about,” he replies, motioning Sam to upstairs to the ramparts where Brienne is leading them. He needs to get back to her side. “Do you have a family?”

“I do.”

“I do too,” Jaime proclaims. “Fight for them…fight! Don’t give up. Don’t you dare give up…”

Sam scrambles up with Jaime to the ramparts. It’s by chance he and Brienne find each other at the same time. She grabs a hold of his shoulder and nearly tosses him to the corner of the ramparts. She curses him, she almost lost him and he apologizes again and again as he regains his footing. On the ramparts, it’s a dance like the one from earlier, but a dance of another sort. They work in tandem as Jaime shouts for more archers to light the trench and leading them to the parapets as Brienne shuffles more people to the top. They shout at each other, Jaime first asking “Where’s Pod?” and Brienne pointing with Oathkeeper to the left. Jaime sees him, goes to his side and asks if he’s alright. He gets a nod.

Pod points below. “What…why are they opening the gate again?”

They can’t open the gate, it’s suicide. The dead will march in and they will all perish. He looks down and sees the Unsullied down below that exit the gates in a shield wall.

“What are they doing?” Pod asks, “What…”

“Look!”

Brienne joins them. Jaime, between the two, spots a woman with hair like flames, different from Cersei’s that used to spill on the pillow. He cannot hear, but he sees the red woman against the trench. Unsullied fall to protect her, they do not let the dead touch her, and when fire lights the trenches, illuminating and shifting the dull and muddy blue to orange like dawn, Jaime, between his found family in this battle, wraps both his arms around them.

“I can’t believe it,” Brienne says. “It shouldn’t be.”

But dragons shouldn’t be, dead men walking shouldn’t be, and Jaime should not think he’s with his family, or tell other people he has a family. But battle makes him delirious, and he did tell, and what’s more is that he does believe. That’s what one must do in battle—believe. And with the two of them, he does what any man with his family does—he supports, weary though as he is, and about to fall. But Brienne won’t let him fall. Never would. Podrick too—

He is weary, and too tired to think anything more about Jaime’s arm around him or his arm around Jaime, other than the fact that in battle before certain death, everyone is everyone’s brother. They have shed blood together, protected and fought. It has made it so.

He’s too beaten to come to terms with the fact that this family he’s forged is only because of the battle, and it’s only that he must find something to latch onto before certain doom. He would be too broken to face the truth, die immediately if he faced the truth. He can’t crush that one ember of hope that it’s not merely battle. Instead, he knows to take this moment to breathe, enjoy, and breathe again as the dead hole themselves behind the line of fire.

It’s far from over. It’s only the beginning.

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime pants, gaze turning to her. “You fought well.”

Even as tired and weary as he, she glows at the title, Ser Brienne.

“As did you, Ser Jaime,” she replies.

He eyes her armor, up and down. “I’m glad it fits.”

They sheathe their swords for the time being. They lean on each other. Jaime and Brienne more so, though Podrick still hangs on. They’re slanted and all have their arms wrapped around each other—ghosts, trying to come back to life for the next stretch. Of course there will be a next stretch…they can stand for hours but the fire will die, it’s a fact. And his father always taught him that in battle, he should never be comfortable.

Fuck what he said.

That thought blazes through his mind. He’ll be comfortable if he damn well pleases with his family, with Brienne. In the blessed quiet in chaos, he should have one moment of comfort.

And Brienne. Brienne…

He closes his eyes. Her cheek is pressed against his.

“Jaime, please do me one thing,”

“What?” he breathes. “What my lady?”

“Call me Ser Brienne. I didn’t think I’d get to hear it as much as I’d like, but…I like the sound of it, from you. And—"

He obliges. He wants to give. “Ser Brienne,” he says. “Ser Brienne, Ser Brienne…my lady…Ser Brienne…my lady.”

He chants for what feels like hours, but she relieves him after a while, pulling him closer to her frame.

“Save the rest…” she commands, and he can feel her warm breath against him, “for later.”

He obeys. Later is not merely a word, but a promise. He learned as much earlier before she kissed him gently.

“Jaime,” she says, a moment later, “we have to move, we have…”

“But I’m in your arms,” he protests. “I’m here. I always wanted to die in the arms of a woman I....well." It's absurd, but his cheeks grow hot. He ignores it. "Please. Let me my lady. Please. I want…”

“You must live Jaime. I want you to live.”

Live, he thinks. But live… for what?

She pushes him. So does Podrick. He forces himself to stand fully so she’s not supporting him so much. Her eyes are brilliant against the dull, cruel world.

One hand unsheathes Oathkeeper. The other cups his cheek. She kisses his forehead. She kisses and she gives gently again.

“Fight Jaime. You don’t run away from fights.”

She compels, she inspires. She's right.

He nods. He unsheathes Widow's Wail. He fights. He lives. He does it for her. He does it for later.


	5. Fall

Jaime, once lion unleashed on the battlefield and once part god that saved her without any thought of himself, nearly fell in the middle of the long night in her arms as the dead stood blocked against the fire. They waited for whatever would be next, and she held him gently in her arms. Like he did before in the baths at Harrenhal, he fit. He felt good. She wanted him to stay so she may protect him. She almost wanted to yell that he should have never have come North and he should have stayed South where he was safe. Yet selfishly, she liked him right where he was, by her side, in her arms. She liked him right there.

Only the violence of battle made everything in the mind clear. Everything hit her then in battle, that part of her that wondered since Harrenhal what was it about Ser Jaime that enraptured her to hold and cradle him and have his muddy green eyes peer at her with looks she could place but couldn’t believe. The lock she never knew existed in her being was found that day at Harrenhal, the lock that held her propensity to love and cherish. It wondered if Jaime could be that man. Jaime coming back to her resurfaced it, as she long since buried it since Cersei came to her directly before Joffrey’s death and cruelly asked, but more accused her perhaps, if she loved him. It unlocked at last at Winterfell during battle with him wanting to stay in her arms. Jaime’s soft eyes were the key, and his sweet words. Everything Jaime. In her arms, he unlocked her lock and it was like dragon fire. She loved him and she loved him and _she loved him._

It was the promise of later that made her come to her senses.

She propped him on his feet and told him that he had to continue to fight. He listened to her, he always did she remembered with a twinge of irony. You need to eat, she told him long ago after he lost his right hand. He did. Take Riverrun without shedding blood. He did. Fuck loyalty. He did. But that wasn’t all true with loyalty, no, she grimly remembered that—he rode North because he was loyal to her. And because he was loyal to her he continued fighting.

 _Come back,_ she thought as soon as he obeyed and the fighting wore on. _Come back. Let me be that woman that holds you when you die. Let me be the woman you love._

Not then. Not that night. Not until they were old and grey. How even so, she relished having him in her arms.

Not tonight. Not tonight. Later.

Later is her chant and mantra as the dead barricade against the fire, allowing more of the army to pass and make way to the fortress. There’s too many of them, more than she can see in her vision. They can fight for hours but how much of a dent would that make? The creatures are death. No one can beat death, no matter how hard. But Brienne wants later. She thinks she wants later enough to do the impossible.  
She catches Jaime’s eye before the dead begin to climb. He’s not so much a lion anymore, but halfway between a god and dead man, but also a man with soft eyes that she loves and would fight for until she can’t feel anymore. She’d protect that man with anything and he would protect her too.

“Not tonight,” she tells him.

Jaime nods. Podrick, in her vision, nods too. They fight.

They cut the dead men down as they pile to the top of the wall and climb to reach the top and pour into Winterfell. But there aren’t enough men to line the walls as the dead tumble in. Brienne is near Pod with Oathkeeper in hand, wondering how much is she really helping with her blade, but knowing it is better to fight than to succumb—it was partly why she was made a knight after all. She will not yield, it’s her one thought. Then there is another.

Where is Jaime?

It’s less that she hears him and more that she senses him, and she curses herself for ever letting him out of her sight. He’s under her command. He gave himself to her, her Jaime. Hers. She loves him and that love is what transported part of her soul to his.

She didn’t have time to think of the implications behind her thoughts in battle, since love became a word associated with Jaime she hadn’t thought at all and only felt, but it is now as she comes to him, Oathkeeper in hand, and cuts him free that implications of love and Ser Jaime are blinding. It was the thought of losing him, the thought of him dying alone and not with her. Now, fighting and in the fray again she’s still half hopeful for later but also half convinced death is inevitable and unavoidable on this night, but either way it’s Jaime that unleashes her conserved strength and keeps her going on.

There’s little time for thanks or sweet words, but she feels the gratefulness pour from him as hers poured earlier when he saved her. They’re halves of a whole. They sense, they know. They fight side by side. She feels him behind her as an extension of her own soul. He is a lion and though she’s been called a “bear of a woman,” she’s Ser Brienne that brims with longings to stand and fight by the man who she has inspired, the man who pledged himself to her, and the man she loves and will not see fall on this night. He will not fall, not unless it’s in her arms and they have given everything they could possibly give.

Their backs press together, energies propelling each other from sinking to their knees as others in her command drive forward to cut more down from pooling into the fortress. They slay a dozen together at least, done with the ease of a well-practiced dance her father once tried to teach her on Tarth. He invigorates and he inspires, but once they find a moment of reprieve, their souls meld deeper together in need. They cannot stand otherwise. If she couldn’t feel the fatigue before, too caught up with Jaime, Pod, and the rest of her left flank’s position, she can feel it now. She needs Jaime’s support as he needs hers, Brienne feeling his ragged breaths behind her as she feels her racing heart.

“The gate, the gate!”

It’s Podrick. He points his sword below the courtyard. “We have to go,” he mouths and motions, and Brienne’s louder voice rings through the ramparts. Parts of her scattered command dashes back down, cutting away at the dead that have broken through the gate. She’s the first to unmold herself from Jaime, but when he doesn’t follow after a few paces, her soul, knowing it is only half full, turns back.

“I’m coming,” he says, breathing hard, his left hand pressed to his side. “I…”

She’s near him instantly. She straightens him up and it doesn’t register at first that he’s wounded and hurting until her eyes drift downward to the tears in his leather breast plate.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “I can walk, I can fight…Brienne, we have to go!”

Oathkeeper in one hand, she grabs his left wrist with the other. “Stand behind me,” she commands.

He shrugs away from her touch. “I will not!” he shouts, indignant.

“You’re wounded. I will not have you—”

Her speech is interrupted by a loud, shrieking roar overhead. Brienne grimaces and Jaime covers his ears as overhead, a dragon soars, loud and uproarious and stilling them to temporary quiet. The Night King. Bran Stark mentioned the Night King and what he wants. Is he over their heads?

Where is Daenerys? Where is the other dragon?

Before she can rationalize Jaime shoves at her, and thankfully it is not with his golden hand, though she is sure he would never. Either way his reminding push succeeds in knocking her back to the now, reminding her that they all have different roles to play. What they are doing matters, not what anyone else is doing. Pod is what matters, her command is what matters. Jaime is what matters.

“You are my commander,” Jaime says, “And you deserve—”

“I’m a knight too!” She shouts. “I am a knight and as a knight I will protect ones I care about!”

“You’re a knight?” Jaime says in mock surprise. “I’m a knight too. I was the one, milady that knighted you—"

“I need you alive!”

The statement is almost as loud as the dragon. It’s the loudest thing Brienne has ever said. Yet not the loudest thing she has ever done. That honor falls to the kiss in the heat of battle.

It’s brief and it lacks any skill or finesse of lovers. Brienne kisses Ser Jaime with Oathkeeper still in her hand, because she can never bare to let such a precious thing that is hers and will always be hers fall to the ground, and she kisses him with her other hand cupping his bearded cheek. In the long night it is only the briefest moment, their first kiss, but she makes it last an eternity. She makes it so she will carry it with her for what time she has left. They’re doomed, they’re all doomed—ignoring that fact is irrational and naïve, and the dead fill the courtyard as a dragon soars overhead with the Night King riding it. She never believed in this before. She believed in honor and good people and bad people until Jaime Lannister came into her life and she found out he was somewhere between. And now she loves him as he rests more to a solidly and unambiguously good man, and she has kissed him and he has kissed back, even if it was merely a gentle tug at her lip before she parted. He didn’t want it to end, she thinks with a thrill. Neither did she. But they have kissed and they have fought together as one soul against an army of the dead, yet what she finds more unbelievable is the startling knowledge that she has kissed the man she loves. And in his kiss, he has told her he loves back. She could fly.

She doesn’t fly. She—and yes, he allows her to go first, rushes down the stairs with Pod and with Jaime. It goes on and on, this dance until it’s mechanical and until she’s an animal that’s clawing, biting, unleashed from a prison and filling her rage. Love mingles with violence, perhaps love is always violence, and just when she thinks she cannot take it any longer, that she will fall, it’s deathly silent.

They stand in Wintefell with the orange burn of fire in the distance, and the sudden silence and lack of movement deafens, and speaks of something far direr than the constant clank of swords. When she’s not moving, fighting and dancing she’s more aware of the rotten smell and her own tiredness, as well as the movement of others surrounding them. A soul a few paces ahead of them—one of the Northerners under her command—throws his sword to the ground.

“We’ve won!” he shouts. “We’ve won!”

Podrick doesn’t celebrate. Neither does Jaime. And Brienne, in her being, knows. It’s not over.

That was when they rise. They rise, and how she wishes more than anything that she would have embraced Podrick and given him affection as she gave to Jaime. He’s been such a good squire, he deserves to know as much as well as how much she’s grown to care for him since Jaime handed him off to her in King’s Landing. How too, she wishes she would have kissed Jaime again. One more time, and harder too, until he was dying in her arms…

The dead rise. She has no time to think how or why, only that her fate is too fight with honor until every inch of her body is shattered and bleeding. They fight on. They’re pushed back. It’s either days or minutes but nowhere in between as Brienne tries to fight with the ones she loves, puts in the best effort that she can, but ultimately knows that she can cut down at least half a dozen, but either it will make only the smallest difference or no difference at all, for what’s stopping them from being resurrected again? What sort of magic is this?

But. _But…_

Close to death and close to the brink makes the mind clear. She realizes it is the same magic that brought Jaime to her. The same one, the one of battle and war that made him give and made her kiss him, and made her realize she loved him. She would have been so afraid any other time, to learn she loved a man deeper than she even loved Renly or anyone else in that way she has read about in books, but the knowledge of imminent doom makes the matter of love and knowledge of want not so frightening. It soothes her as she and her family are pushed further against the walls of Winterfell, that she has so much love. She doesn’t have to worry or think that Jaime merely draws himself and claims himself to her because they will die before dawn. She just knows that she will die as Jaime’s, and he will die as hers. Even if he is not in her arms or she in his…they are each other’s for one beautiful night, before and during the battle, and after.

Oathkeeper falls from her grip. As she pushes and tries to tear the dead men away as they claw and bite and nearly overwhelm, pressing her body further into hard stone, she sees where it falls. It clinks against Jaime’s sword. Brienne’s eyes glance to the sword’s owner. They’re pinned, they’re together.

She could not hear him if he tried to speak. He speaks with his eyes. It is battle, it is death and doom that makes her see love songs in his eyes as well as his oaths. He knighted her but she’s his lady. Always has been.

“Jaime,” she says, wanting his name to be the last thing she says. “Jaime…”

He cannot hear, of course he can’t—she could barely hear her own voice in the noise. But he says her name, and he says one final thing, before the strength in her arms will quake and the world turns upside down.

_Yours._

Yours. Like Oathkeeper. Oathkeeper is hers, always will be. Like his heart.

They’re almost touching. Almost. It’s not enough. The last look at the lion, pressed against stone walls as she is, clawing and trying to escape is not enough. He doesn’t close her eyes, and it inspires her not to close hers. Let them sing of Brienne the bear, brave till the very end. Brave, and near Ser Jaime the lion and her squire Podrick.

Let them know, she chants, her knew mantra. Let them know. Let them know I love and I love and I—

Falling. No tear in her body and soul as she expected, just the surprise that there is no release. Falling, just like that. No noise, no screams, no ragged breathing. Nothing.

Alive. The dead fall, no more fight in them, and they are alive.

Podrick falls first to his knees, bone tired—too tired to wonder why the fighting has stopped and too happy to care, only that it has and they have made it through the night. Can it be? Are they alive and is she not dreaming? Her body is still wired to fight, her tired arms feel as though she’s still pushing the dead back, their putrid smell of death lingers in the air, and they are still surrounded by foul, decaying bodies. Amidst it all, amidst everything, her soul is still with his.

Has it ever not been since Harrenhal?

She calls out to him. He answers with “Ser Brienne,” ragged, tired, and elated.

“Brienne,” he says again. “I— _argh_.”

“Jaime?”

His face is caked with blood and sweat and grime, hair disarrayed. He’s halfway to a corpse. Yet before she can say anything ans ask if he’s alright, Podrick speaks.

“Ser Brienne…Ser Jaime,” he says, and joy is in his words. “We must have won!”

“Won,” Jaime mutters, half grinning. “Won…”

He topples over to his knees, clutching at the wound on his side. Brienne falls with him, breaking his hard slam to the ground and letting her arms be gentle around him, even as she panics and demands he not shut his eyes. They’ve lived the long night and Ser Jaime cannot fall now, not when it’s over and they have survived together.

“Jaime,” she breathes, holding his face in his hands as Podrick swivels around. Beside Brienne he inspects the wound, says it’s not deep, but it needs to be tended and they have to prevent infection.

“Not this,” she says, “please. Do not do this to me. Not after everything. After I’ve—”

“Are you crying?”

She uses the back of her hand to wipe away the lone tear, followed by another. “No,” she lies.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

It’s no use to wipe her tears away. More tears fall, they may as well be rain now. “Jaime…please,” she beseeches, “No. Please…”

And that is when the sound fills the courtyard, Jaime’s happy and merry laugh that sounds so foreign compared to everything that they have been through, and yet still sounds as music. It is music. He is her music.

“I’m alright,” he says, peering at her, laughter still in his eyes. “I need tending, but I will live. I’m not quite dead yet wench. But if I was going to die…”

He’s gentle, when he traces her jaw with his finger, ceasing the wobbles of her chin.

He smiles. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Mind,” she orders, hard on the word. “You will not die tonight, or tomorrow, or months or years from now.”

He nods, ever so slightly. “Yes wench.”

She laughs. Near her, Podrick laughs as the courtyard fills with scattered soldiers, some from her command, Unsullied and other soldiers, happy and elated and alive, beginning the long process of the after, of later. “It’s Ser Brienne,” she makes sure to note to the man in her arms, who quite fits and seems content to stay there, “or my lady. Either is sufficient and will do. Not wench.”

“Alright,” Jaime says, and he sighs, laughter still in his eyes, “alright my lady, Ser Brienne.”

Perhaps “wench” isn’t so bad Brienne thinks as others come, and reluctantly and regrettably she helps pull Jaime out of her arms and onto his feet. They didn’t prepare for this in the war meeting, this after. She didn’t even think about later, only that it was a vow she would try to uphold as best she could. She didn’t prepare for dawn when she kissed Jaime. Yet it breaks through Winterfell, a soft glow where the dragon fire was flamed crimson, and Brienne hopes the dawn will bring other words from Jaime, paired along with Ser Brienne, and my lady.

Sweet words, such as _sweetling_ , or _love._ Beautiful words, for their beautiful later. Yet if “wench” is truly the best he can do, she will take it with open arms.


	6. Abed

The great hall of Winterfell with its tables and chairs pushed back against the wall transforms into an infirmary where the wounded rest on makeshift cots. As they rest, or rest the best they can on cold and hard floor, Samwell Tarley from earlier (Jaime privately admitting a slight, but delighted surprise at his survival) and other self-appointed doctors and nurses scamper about to tend to them. They deliver what small reserves of milk of the poppy they have for those that need it, and when Samwell Tarly arrives at Jaime’s side again, kneeling and assuring the draught will help him rest, Jaime once again declines. Someone else needs it more than he does.

“It’s just a scratch,” he says again.

Before Samwell parts, he is sure to thank Jaime. “Oh, for what?” he asks, head rolling against the thin cotton pillow, almost as thin as the “bed” underneath him.

“Reminding me of my family, and why I should go on.”

Jaime returns his smile. “Perhaps it reminded me too.”

“Reminded you of what?”

Tyrion drifts to Jaime, as he did earlier when his wound was first tended to, kneeling by his side and doing a good job of flaunting how he gets to look down at him for once.

“Family,” Jaime answers as Sam moves to tend to another soldier.

“Ah. Family,” Tyrion says, eliciting a Mummer’s show. “Is that why you fell into the arms of Ser Brienne of Tarth?”

Ah. His brother found out about that. Did Podrick tell the tale of the wounded lion hoping his commander would carry him home?

Jaime doesn’t reply, but it’s enough to give bis brother more to work with. He knows he has the upper hand in this new battle. To distract, Jaime gingerly touches his bandaged wound, so he won’t have to see Tyrion gloat.

“You shouldn’t touch it you damned fool, you know that,” Tyrion scolds.

“It’s not deep,” he counters, continuing to touch. It smarts only a little. “I was clawed at and pinned against the ramparts when the dead began crawling up the castle. Nothing more.”

“Just a scratch?” Tyrion asks. “You shouldn’t have fallen in anyone’s arms if that were the case.”

“I was fighting for the entire night.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve been through worse. Unless you fancied being dramatic and wanted to be held by someone strong.”

Jaime’s eyes narrow. “She’s gentle.”

Gentle. Her arms were as gentle as her kiss. Gods, he hopes that kiss remains their secret. Perhaps later, they can make more.

Yet as far as he’s concerned, it is later. So where is Brienne?

Tyrion, knowing, raises his eyebrows. Jaime solemnly notes he’s too easy to see through. No matter. He rests his head against the pillow, praying for sleep to overcome, but it doesn’t. He may have slept earlier, albeit briefly after his wounds were bandaged, but to fall asleep again, only a real bed will suffice. Alas, he has no bed at Winterfell.

Perhaps a story will do the trick. He asks Tyrion again how the battle all turned out the way it did. How do they even still have breath and how are they still there in Winterfell, alive, with Tyrion looking down at him and Jaime on a fabric that can’t even be called a bed.

“Arya Stark,” Tyrion replies. “She stabbed the Night King, and he shattered into a million snowy pieces in the Godswood. Since the Night King created the others, they perished as well. So Bran Stark and Jon Snow say.”

Jaime blinks. He heard it before, and though he asked to hear it again, his drowsy state must have brought beliefs that the story would change. “That’s it?” he wonders.

“Are you complaining? We’re here,” Tyrion mentions. “And in fact, I told you I thought we’d live.”

“Well, I do admit, after all that buildup of the Night King before the mess began…I expected dragon fire maybe, or something more dramatic and less traditional than a good stab to kill him. But I don’t know…”

He sighs. “Dead men walking and trying to kill me is not my area of expertise. But I’m not complaining. I’m alive.”

“Yes,” Tyrion mutters, “you’re alive. We’re alive. Barely.”

He turns grave. “How many dead?”

“Many,” Tyrion replies, equally as grave. “The queen. She has suffered the biggest loss of men.”

Jaime frowns. He pities the girl, truly he does. He’s lost men under his command and knows each death is a crack on the soul. Even if their deaths didn’t all come with a name you could pinpoint, they were still a face under your banner that fought for you, and someone that should be mourned. He does pity. Yet Jaime knows Daenerys Targaryen will not look at him with anything other than contempt. He doesn’t blame her, not after what he did to her father. She may know the full story, but what is he but a reminder of the golden lion that killed her father while his back was turned? For that matter, he also tried to kill her.  
She may ask for his head now that the dead are no longer a threat. Perhaps Bran Stark will reveal the truth, though that makes him shudder. He doesn’t know what will happen, either way, and that’s almost frightening. Perhaps Daenerys won’t go to King’s Landing now, though if he thinks about that situation and what all that would entail, it would add to the bundle of growing anxiousness in his already wearied and tired heart. It would be too much.

He tells Tyrion he doesn’t wish to speak of the dragon queen anymore. He doesn’t tell him he wishes to speak of a more beautiful, taller woman that gives gentle and lovely kisses that mark the soul. No, he’d dare not say that. But he does wonder where she has wandered off to.

“Have you seen Brienne?” he asks, shifting in his cot, knowing he looks like hell but attempts anyway to be more presentable. “I need to tell her something.”

“She was here earlier,” he answers. “You were asleep.”

He must have nodded off longer than he thought. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he nearly demands.

“Because she didn’t want to wake you. She did ask if you were faring well though.”

“Where is she now?” He tries to sound as neutral as possible.

“With Lady Sansa, I’d imagine. There are…matters to attend to.”

Of course. Solemn again, he asks, “how many did she lose?”

“A hundred, if I were to estimate. She would have lost more had she not called the retreat when she did.”

His brother pauses, his face falling. “Are you alright Tyrion?” Jaime asks, rising from the floor, trying not to aggravate his bandaged wound.

“It wasn’t easy, not knowing. Waiting,” he responds after another pause. “At least you were there. You knew.”

Half the time he didn’t, he admitted. He couldn’t see past what he was doing, it was too dark a lot of the time, and what kept him going was the family he knew he had to protect no matter what. That was what he knew.

Tyrion, looking conspiratorial, leans down. Without directly using the words, he asks if Jaime refers those in the Red Keep, those two he left behind.

He doesn’t reply. Tyrion’s voice is still low. “I see,” he mutters.

He feels vile. He is vile. But he thinks of receiving the news that Tommen died and his insides twisting with shameful regret, and he thinks of holding his daughter with the poison on her lips as she struggled for breath. He even sees Joffrey with his eyes red, his face purple, struggling for air and clawing to life until he passed. And then he wants to see it no longer.

“Is Podrick alright?” Jaime asks, images ceasing. “And where is Brienne? I told you I have something to ask her.”

“Podrick is fine, he’s helping with the dead. Brienne is, as I said, likely with Lady Sansa.”

“But—”

He ignores Jaime’s protests. “You need to rest. I know you feigned the full extent of your injuries, but the journey from King’s Landing couldn’t have been pleasant. How long has it been since you’ve slept well? Rest Jaime.”

“I can’t sleep here,” Jaime says plainly, and like a petulant child. “It hurts my back.”

“Do you want Brienne to tell you a bedtime story?”

He thinks of it as less of a bedtime story, and more as what the lovers refer to as “pillow talk.” His mind wanders. Gods. Pillow talk with Brienne. His fingertips running through her short hair, drinking her vision in morning light. _Do you want to kiss me good morning? You kissed me goodbye on the ramparts in Winterfell You kissed me to make me believe. Kiss me again in the morning light. I’ve never really had mornings before, and mornings are for lovers…_

_You don’t deserve to want, you craven._

He groans, half from shifting in such a way that inflames his injury, half in his frustration. The creeping feelings of “deserve” pierce like an arrow. He settled himself for death. He was content to die in Winterfell with the living against the dead, knowing his honor would still be besmirched and the White Book with his page still unfilled, but having his own satisfaction at fulfilling an oath of love. Yet what is he to do now? He can’t go back to King’s Landing. He has no desire for that, not when those he cares for are elsewhere. His brother and his family forged in battle are in Winterfell. Brienne is in Wintefell. Yet what would she say if he stayed? Would she want him?

She’s kissed him, yes, several times he recalls. The places where her lips pressed to his skin still tingle like a soft fire. Yet that has a reasonable explanation in itself…she is a maid. (He assumes. If Tormund Gianstbane is any indication, it’s not so out of the ordinary to suspect she has other prospects and options, and she’s taken an offer for one before he arrived at Winterfell. Though he decides not to consider that.) It’s only natural to want to explore that part of oneself, especially before a probable death, and out of everyone in Winterfell, he fancies himself Brienne’s best option. He assumes, anyway. After all, there are no men like him.

He curses himself. He should be humbler. He’s not a very good man, and Brienne is too good. She casts him in an allusion he’s better than he is, and akin to Ser Arthur Dayne or Ned Stark. He indulged in her before, thinking it would be the end, allowing himself the right to dream. But now that he has nothing but time to indulge or think that maybe, maybe she’d like to move beyond a kiss…

His mind shifts again, this time to an infuriated Brienne at the baths of Harrenhal. He always goes back to the baths at Harrenhal. Brienne, infuriated he insulted Renly, splashing hot water and rising. He had no mind to imprint the image of her nakedness then. He wishes he would have. Instead he thinks of her in battle, wearing the armor he commissioned for her. He envisions her with Oathkeeper in hand, dueling with the skill of the most seasoned knights, unleashed like a lion of his house’s crest. His cock hardens.

He groans. Tyrion mistakes it as pain. He has a suggestion. “Jorah Mormont’s room?” Jaime asks after Tyrion suggests he retire there.

“He is one of the queen’s trusted companions,” Tyrion says. “Unfortunately…”

“I can’t do that,” Jaime says, the name sounding familiar. “That’s…disrespectful.”

“You, wanting to be respectful? Shocking.”

Jaime recalls why the name is familiar. Long ago, Jorah Mormont was in a grand tourney. He caught the eye of a lady and fought for her. He dismounted many that day, all save Jaime. He did however, break every one of his lances until Robert Baratheon crowned Jorah the winner. Cersei demanded why he didn’t just dismount him after. Jaime never told her he did it because Ser Jorah was clearly in love.

Tyrion asks him to get up. He can, and does. He follows his brother, or hobbles—perhaps that is more apt, clutching his side so the bandages don’t fall off. At his request, they were not bound so tightly before he nodded off.

“My room,” Tyrion says.

“But what if you need it?” At least he asks before he can fall against the furs.

“I need to speak to the queen. If I do, I’ll come find you later. There’s likely to be a funeral of sorts sometime soon, for the fallen. You should het some rest before then.”

Jaime thanks his brother. “If I find Ser Brienne, I’ll bring her here. Maybe,” he says, before he’s off. The last word is uttered with a knowing glance, but there’s nothing to know. His brother only is searching. In fact, Jaime is about to call him back to say he doesn’t have to bring Brienne to him, but he changes his mind, thinking that would find him out. Closing the door and crawling in the bed, he leans back against the pillow, covers himself in the furs, and it doesn’t take him long before he drifts to sleep.

He dreams in blurred images. Dead men walking and fire. Myrcella in his arms, Tommen falling, Joffrey undermining him for being a forty-year old knight and his face turning purple. Brienne pulling him in her arms, him whispering we can’t choose who we love. He feels her kiss unbidden in the dream. He’s warm, warmer still. She calls to him, but he can’t see her. Can’t see her. She calls again…and again…

“Brienne,” he mutters, groggy. “Brienne…”

“Wake up Jaime. Wake.”

He blinks the sleep from his eyes. Awake, he finds Brienne, highlighted by the glow of a fire. She’s out of her armor and in a brown laced tunic instead, hair combed and fresh. She’s almost cozy looking. The room is quite hot.

“I made the fire for you,” she says, Jaime’s eye glancing toward the orange glow. “You were shivering.”

“It’s bloody hot in here.”

“I didn’t want you cold,” she says, small for such a woman that takes up so much space. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“That… _oh_.”

“I’m sorry if you’re too hot. I—”

“No. Please don’t apologize.”

He’s overwhelmed by sweetness as he’s overwhelmed by heat. He supposes it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t covered in furs. He peels them away. “It’s still too hot,” he says after, deciding his tunic is particularly thick. “Brienne, do you think you could—”

He pulls at the hem of his tunic, silently asking with the motion and with pleading eyes if she would take it off.

Her blue eyes turn wide, like doe eyes.

“It’s hot,” he grumbles. “Besides. I could use a change of bandage.” He glances at the cloth in her hands. “And look there. I see you brought some.”

She consents. She was thinking about me, she wanted to see me, he thinks with glee. She came. He’s blissful as her fingers unlace the strings of his tunic, and he rises, lifting his arms over his head to help her. The shirt gets caught in the golden hand, she straightens it out for him. When the shirt is gone and away, she still holds the golden hand in hers.

“Would you like it off?” she asks, cradling his wrist that’s not Lannister gold, but all him.

She holds him so delicately, like she held him on the field of battle, like she did at Harrenhal, but he tells her “not particularly.”

She frowns. “Doesn’t it get heavy?”

He’s about to lie, but he reaches for her instead, to caress her. There’s a purplish bruise that paints underneath her eye.

“It will heal,” she says as he tries to be soft and gently caress it. “It’s alright Jaime.”

She still holds his right hand. “Let me take it off.”

“It’s fine. It’s not heavy.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she moves on to changing his bandages. She lightly tugs at the poorly bounded cloth, revealing the three gashes across his abdomen. They aren’t deep, but they will likely scar. Her brows furrow as she studies them, fingertips lightly ghosting the marks, trying not to hurt him. The bandages Samwell Tarly gave her are lightly soaked in milk of the poppy, she says. It will allow them to heal much more quickly. He must rise she says, so he obeys. She bandages him up, careful not to hurt him or bind too tightly. He’s never had this before, this being taken care of by a woman, and when she helps him back down, she smiles softly. His earlier thoughts of desperation and worry aren’t there. He has only thoughts of Brienne, only thought to be with her in any way, even if they are not acting like lovers.  
But how do lovers act together, other than making love or kissing each other? He doesn’t think he knows too terribly well.

“Don’t do that again Jaime,” she softly says, but he makes no mistake. That’s an order from his commander. “When you fell, I thought…”

The worst. He’s racked with guilt. “I faked it,” he reveals, hoping it will ease her.

It does the opposite. She’s against. “Jaime Lannister…You…you mean to tell me that you faked falling, to—”

“Oh Brienne…I’m sorry!”

He tries not to laugh. It smarts a little when he does, but eventually he can’t help it and he’s in titters “It did hurt, I don’t lie about that,” he clarifies. “Perhaps I wanted another kiss though, and to be in your strong, but gentle arms…”

“Jaime Lannister, you will not be kissed now.”

He gives her a look that he hopes reminds her of a wounded kitten that she cannot help but give some sympathy toward. “Ah, my Lady Brienne,” he begins grandly, “why not?”

“Lady Brienne? Not ‘wench’ is it?”

He smirks. “If you like ‘wench,’ I can.”

“Where did you even come by that name?”

He shrugs. “It seemed to just arrive to me, I suppose. But I can call you whatever you like.”

“Call me whatever pleases you.”

His grin must be sheepish. “A kiss pleases me.”

“You being quiet pleases me.”

“Oh you wound me.”

“I would never.”

“Heal me with your ardent mouth.”

It makes her laugh. It delights him to hear her unpracticed, unrestrained, and loud laugh, so unlike the way noble women are taught to laugh. When it eases, she grasps his left hand. Thankfully that’s nearer to her than his golden hand.

She intertwines their fingers. “Brienne,” he whispers, dreamily, remembering something. “It is later, as you said.”

“…it is.”

“I would very much like to find out what all this entails.”

“We’re alive,” she replies. “That seems enough.”

“But alive to do what?”

“You need to rest now.” she tells him, though laughter is still in her eyes, later is in her eyes.

“You do as well,” he points out. “We could…”

He gestures to the other side. “The bed is too small,” she says.

“Yes, but if you crawled in, look how close we’d be.”

“This is your brother’s bed.”

“Yes, but don’t you have a bed at Winterfell my lady? That would solve a few problems.”

She has been holding her breath. “Lady Sansa waits for me,” she says, exhaling and depressingly changing the subject. “I can’t keep her much longer.”

He frowns, but duty calls. “Alright, alright,” he says, sighing. He still thinks about that kiss though. He’s always going to be thinking of that kiss, and basking on it and how it in part willed his survival.

They’re alive. He’s alive to do…things. Certain things with her. Oh, he wants to be with her and be her lover. Yes, yes. It’s consuming him, but he doesn’t know what that means to be a lover. He only knows what it’s like to be someone’s mirror image. He’s read books certainly, but books usually detail only the most dramatic bits. By all rights, that’s what’s happened to them so far. Losing his right hand, saving her from the bear, meeting again, fighting by each other’s side. What of the slower and softer parts? He doesn’t know, and it worries him he’d do it wrong and put her off. If he does it wrong and she doesn’t want a lover in him…

Yet she kisses the top of his hand, pulling him from a spiral of anxious thoughts. The spot where her lips pressed is akin to a burn of a candle. To have his whole body that way, to be fully enflamed by Brienne’s lips and her softness and her sinews, her everything.

She rises, and he watches her as she drifts to the end of the bed, praying she will not see that rather defined bulge. Thankfully, as she picks up her furred cloak from the end of the bed, she keeps the focus on his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you.”

The frankness and sincerity, though appreciated, and even makes him flush with pride and elation—puzzles him. He should be thanking her, and thanking her only.

“You helped me,” she clarifies. “You came to me in battle.”

“You saved me too,” he mentions. “Before that, you let me serve under your command. You kissed me too,” he says, dreamily. “Believe me, I am the one who should be thanking.”

“You wanted me.”

“Want,” he corrects, with no moment of hesitation.

Want. Did he frighten her? He worries he did as she shifts, tells him Sansa is waiting. He bids her goodbye and that duty awaits, and she’s away a moment after, the door shutting unceremoniously. Alone with his few reminders that Brienne came to him, Jaime sighs. What will he do when he sees her again? He’s never had options before, not really. He’s never had the chance to play a lover or wooer. He barely has any clue how. He’s going to have to learn, recall the clues and guidelines he once read about in novels to find a way to call Brienne his.

But what happened when she came to him, he thinks with a grin, is how lovers act. Lovers that call themselves Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime calling Brienne "wench" is a bit of callback to the books, where Jaime does call Brienne "wench." :)


	7. Warmth

Lady Sansa has asked to speak again. This time she brings Brienne not to the great hall where all the wounded save Jaime rest, but to the Godswood. The Weirwood tree’s leaves are the only vibrant pop of colored red dots amidst pale white. It’s reverent and quiet, a stark contrast to the battle that took place the previous night. Arrows were fired, a man named Theon Greyjoy lost his life defending Bran Stark, and Arya Stark emerged from the shadows to deliver the killing blow to the Night King. Blood stained the ground, crimson against white, yet a small blanket of fresh snowfall has already hidden the red. As Brienne and Sansa stand underneath the Weirwood tree, Brienne tells Sansa that no one would dare imagine what really happened there was something real and not out of a legend or myth. Yet it happened. They lived through it. They are legends. They are myths. Now, it is their duty to be storytellers and make real the legend.

The inner workings of her rather poetic mind, at least at that isolated moment, ceases when Sansa speaks. Brienne thinks she will raise a concern about the Northern armies or discuss the available supply of milk of the poppy, yet when her phrase, “I have a concern,” stops in the middle of “concern,” her silence deafens. Sansa does not take back her words. She doesn’t begin to speak and then take it back. Yet Brienne’s concern grows tenfold when she hides her face in her gloved hands. Her shoulders shake. She weeps and she wails, and though Brienne is ill suited for comforting, a voice from within tells her to go to her and reach out. Sansa takes the silent offer of Brienne’s outstretched arms in stride, and further compelled, Brienne uses her height to be what she swore to Sansa: her shield. She stroke her hair. She cannot shield her from her fears or sorrow, but she can comfort and ease.

“I thought…I thought we were all…”

“I know,” Brienne says, “I thought so too, more than a few times.”

“You? You’re unshakable.”

She thinks of holding Jaime in her arms again, and that one moment of dread. “Not so much, my lady,” she confesses.

She cries a little more. Then after a moment, there is a helpless wail of a single name from Sansa, her face buried against Brienne’s shirt. Theon. Brienne was there when Bran Stark informed Sansa that the Greyjoy boy died defending him. Sansa didn’t weep then, only cast her eye downward and took a deep breath for her fallen friend, mourning for only an instant before she was back out on the field, helping in any way she could. When Sansa mourns for Theon in her private company and comfort, Brienne doesn’t speak. There are no words. She only holds and tries to ease. Theon was there with Sansa when Brienne found her. He was her friend. Sansa is a powerful woman, strong. Somehow, Brienne thinks the tears of mourning make her stronger.

Her shirt is wet when Sansa parts and dries her tears away. “That wasn’t why I wanted to speak,” she admits with a small laugh. “And there’s also another place I had in mind to talk. This place is too full of memories.”

Brienne follows where Sansa leads, and soon enough they are in a thicketed grove near a large pool, steam rising from the water. Deeper in the wood, the tree tops shield snow from blanketing the ground, allowing the grove to be a private paradise. “They call these the hot pools,” Sansa says of the place. “The water runs through Winterfell and brings warmth through the walls.” She wraps herself in her fur cloak, smiling fondly. “When I was a little girl, sometimes we came here to bathe. It’s much preferable to bringing out a washing basin. It’s quieter too.”

It is quiet. Brienne closes her eyes, enjoys the strong smell of pine mingled with light fresh snow. The air is chill and brisk, but the sun rays that peak through the branches bring warmth, and she imagines that if she were to slip into the water, she’d feel it be akin to bathing in sun rays. It would feel hotter than the water at Harrenhal.

“Why did you bring me here Lady Sansa?” Brienne asks, though she holds no small measure of gratitude for being brought to the Godswood and the Weirwood tree. In the past few months Brienne is starting feel less like Sansa’s sword and shield, but more so her friend. Sansa even trusts Brienne with her life, a fact she imparted when Jaime Lannister was brought on trial in front of the lords of the North. Brienne recalls how Sansa caught her eye as Jaime stood in judgement, blunt to the dragon queen and informing her that everything he did, he did for his house and he would do it all again. Perhaps not one of her Jaime’s most intelligent moments, though Brienne commends his bravery and his honesty. No matter that, Sansa and Brienne’s eyes did lock during the trial, right after Jaime made sure to catch her eye when she arrived. Sansa knew Brienne had something to say. She nodded at her, a silent go on. Still Brienne’s heart thundered when she rose and vouched for Jaime.

And now he rests in his brother’s bed, filled with complaints that he’s not in her bed. She has admitted to herself that she loves him.

Love. She loves Ser Jaime Lannister.

What even is love? Is it even true? Is it a thing that’s real? You cannot touch love, only feel it. It is not easily seen either. Yet she feels it to be true and sees something in Jaime’s eyes when he looks at her. Gold, someone could mention, or lion, or Lannister, and her thoughts would always drift to Jaime. Love, dancing, kissing, someone could also mention, and her thoughts would drift to him. Sometimes it was unbidden that her thoughts would fall to Jaime, such as moments where her hand would idly drift to Oathkeeper strapped to her belt. She carries that sword like she carries thoughts of him. And Jaime is the only man whose kiss has ever graced her dreams.

_Jaime and I have kissed. It was more than the books say—more than I could have hoped. And he asked for another. Why didn’t I just give it to him? Stupid fool, stupid bear of a woman. What even does he see in you? Perhaps now that the fighting is done he’ll go back to—_

“Are you blushing?”

“No, my lady,” Brienne replies, trying to hide her face away, for it must be true. Her pale cheeks always had ways of betraying her.

She doesn’t believe her, but has the curtesy to not press. “I’ve been wanting to show you the pools for a while,” she says instead.

“Why now?” Brienne wonders. Though she enjoys the quiet, she regrets leaving Jaime. Selfishly she thought of staying, selfishly taking more time with him. Even just silence would do, him and her, together in front of a fire. Gods, perhaps a silence with Ser Jaime would be preferable—the man chatters and japes far too often. Though perhaps he wouldn’t be her Jaime if he didn’t.

“It’s quiet here,” Sansa replies, and she sits near the pool. “I wanted quiet.”

“Your brother, Daenerys, they’ll wonder where you are. There’s much to do.” A funeral to be had, for those that perished. Discussions of food and supplies for the remaining men…plans to march to the capitol.Though it would be wise for Daenerys to wait. If Brienne was on her counsel, she’d tell her so, but the dragon queen likely would not listen to a woman who has said she would trust the man that killed her father with her life. For all they know, Daenerys is strategizing at that very moment.

She clutches Oathkeeper as if Jaime can feel her anxiety from where he is. If Jaime goes back to King’s Landing… if he goes back to Cersei…

“What will the Lannister do?”

Are Brienne’s thoughts that transparent? Is she that easy to see through? “I…I don’t know,” she answers, stuttering through her words.

“He’s welcome to stay if he would like.”

Brienne stares. She can’t be serious—he is a Lannister with that absurd house mantra of _Hear me Roar_ , and Sansa couldn’t possibly want a Lannister “roaring” around, but she also knows Sansa doesn’t lie.

“He…that would be allowed?”

“I am the Lady of Winterfell. If the Kingslayer wants to stay as the Lady of Winterfell’s guest, he may. I allow it.”

“But knowing what he’s done, knowing he’s a Lannister and…Cersei’s brother…” she hates admitting it, hates hearing in her voice what she left unsaid, “you would be alright with that?”

“You trust him. You fought by his side. I trust you. I trust your taste.”

“Taste?”

Sansa’s wide grin masks her laughter. Brienne does her the curtesy of neither confirming nor denying, too tired to deny something that is clearly true, but confesses she doesn’t know if Jaime would stay in Winterfell. He left Cersei, but he’s his own man now, free to be whatever he wants. His oath to fight against the living is fulfilled. Why would he choose to be hers?

She tells as much to Sansa. She listens, but she shakes her head when Brienne plops down next to her in the snow.

“No,” she says, firm. “He won’t leave.”

“Lady Sansa, how can you know?”

“I just do.”

It’s enough. More than enough. Brienne smiles, and when Sansa asks to hear about anything and everything that’s Jaime and Brienne, Brienne tells her how they met. She feels practically girlish as she recounts how the Kingslayer became Ser Jaime, and then her Jaime who knighted her and kissed her along the ramparts.

“Kissed?” She’s delighted, as if she’s gotten to the part in her favorite book where the couple announce their feelings of love. “Why…Brienne.”

“Seemed right thing to do at the time,” Brienne justifies.

“Well, now that the fighting is done…” Sansa begins, conspiratorial, “what’s the right thing to do now?”

Likely they’ll have to sort out where exactly Jaime will rest in Winterfell, that is if Sansa’s predictions are right and Jaime will stay. But Brienne recalls his sad, regretful eyes as she left Tyrion’s room, how tightly he held onto her hand. Don’t doubt the things you know to be true, her father once told her.

What does it mean to be a lover?

“We’ll have to see,” Brienne says, both in answer to Sansa and her own question for herself. Yet perhaps, there can be something in the learning. It doesn’t feel so bad, knowing she won’t be alone. Jaime will have to learn too, in a way. What was she, the one who sits in the Red Keep even like as a lover? Brienne can’t imagine Jaime’s only other lover as soft. True some wouldn’t see herself as soft, she knows that. But she would spend hours with him, kissing him and asking nothing in return. Jaime truly has the softest eyes with her. Giving that way is innate for her, but she would give it because it would suit Jaime. She thinks it would be the same for him.

She shivers. Sansa mistakes the reason, asking if she’s cold. “No,” Brienne answers, her fingers drifting to the edge of the water and into the hot pool. It’s nearly as warm as herself, she’s so warm. She’s tingling with fire, burning with a want for him and that new beard of his to be everywhere on her body. Everywhere, everywhere…

“Was there something else, Lady Sansa?” she asks quickly, before her thoughts enter a realm there’s no turning back from. “Or did we really come all this way to talk about Jaime Lannister?”

Sansa laughs before replying there was another thing, drifting closer to Brienne’s side. They’re alone, but it’s a reminder that the words are only for Brienne’s ears.

“I worry about her plans,” Sansa admits plainly.

There’s only one her that “her” could be. “We haven’t yet mourned,” Brienne replies. “If there is one thing that unites, it’s grief.”

“You may be right. But after…” Sansa closes her eyes, submerges her hand into the warmth of the water like Brienne did earlier.

“I can’t give up the North,” she states. “It’s my home.”

“I wouldn’t give up on home either.”

It piques Sansa’s curiosity. “Tell me about Tarth,” she asks, and though the sudden change takes her aback, Brienne obliges. “It’s called the Sapphire Isle,” she begins, “because of the blue of it’s waters. Near where I grew up, there was a small oasis, not unlike this one, though the water is as blue as the sea. There’s even a waterfall.” She sighs with remembrance, of running barefoot on the beach, practicing with swordplay with driftwood. “I used to spend hours there, alone.”

“Alone?”

“I didn’t mind being alone,” Brienne says. “No one could make fun of me if I was alone.”

Sansa’s eyes are downcast. Brienne, moved by her pity, assures it’s alright. It was a long time ago and the wounds have healed.

“I used to never think I’d love Winterfell again after what happened,” Sansa muses. “Then it was filled again with people I care about. It’s home again.”

She’d do anything to protect it too. Brienne, though only her sword and shield, feels a flush of pride for her friend.

“I have heard Tarth is beautiful,” Sansa says after a moment. “Would you ever want to go back?”

“Now? Only if I’m not alone,” Brienne replies, thoughtful and contemplative. “I know what it’s like not to be alone now. I can’t imagine going back to be lonely again.”

“Are you lonely now?”

In a way, perhaps. It’s lonely to want and love and not know where exactly tomorrow will lead. Jaime may look at her with a tiding she’s bold enough to call love or at least firm adoration and trust, but what will happen when the armies are ready from their rest and battle lays ahead?

She chooses not to think of that. Instead, she thinks of her family. Sansa, Pod, and Jaime. all the sweeter, because it was a family forged in fire and battle. She has Jaime now. She’s not lonely anymore.

“No,” Brienne promises. “I’m not lonely anymore.”

Later on, Sansa must leave after her brother Jon Snow calls for her. “Will you be alright?” she is sweet to ask before departing. Brienne nods, grateful, and not really alone when she is left alone. The water is warm and compelling, and aware of herself and her body, she strips. She’s not naked in the cold air for long until she’s submerged in the heat of the water that’s not unlike Harrenhal. In Harrenhal Jaime stripped before her, half a corpse and half a god. She didn’t look but for half a moment, and she kept her gaze trailed upward and not below, but she saw. Oh, she saw. She still didn’t like him much then—he mocked her for Renly—but he took her in, all of her. It wasn’t a thought or concern at the time, that the Kingslayer’s eyes drifted across her body and didn’t shriek away in disgust, and too angry that he insulted her, she was bereft of any self-consciousness. Perhaps if he were there with her then in the hot pools, he would like what befell before his eyes. _See me, Ser Jaime,_ she would say. _I am un-armored only for you._ She would command him to take off his armor for her. Only if he wanted, but she’s aware he quite, quite does.

She traces the marks from the bear’s claws, three straight pink lines across her collar. Her fingers skim across the lines before tracing across her ropey shoulders, toned from swinging Oathkeeper, and before that, a heftier greatsword. Succumbing to deeper water, water that reaches her breasts, she touches them without familiarity. She’s never thought much of her breasts before, or even her body if she truly thinks of it. Armor hides the sinews and curves, and she’s never looked at a mirror long enough to contemplate her figure. Indeed, she is both sinewy and curvy, taut and carved from her life of fighting, with figure adjusted to heavy armor. Still, she is unmistakably woman. Does Jaime care about that? She thinks little of it. She’s Brienne before anything, and he is fond of Brienne. He went on a journey with Brienne, and he begged for Brienne’s arms around him after battle. It’s the same for her. And yet Jaime is so distinctly man. He smells of sweat and winter, and other things she knows no name for other than Jaime. It’s masculine and bold, thrilling.

She wraps her arms around herself. He’s thrilling.

Soft and light fingers that earlier traced delicately grow bolder. Absurdly, she cups her breasts in her hands. They fit. And Jaime’s hand, she recalls, is the same size as hers. What would he do if he were there with her? Would he splash hot water at her, or would the heat and warmth turn him languid, leaving him with no patience for games? Would he gently pull her into his frame, so their nakedness would glide against each other? The last time they were enveloped by warm water, he bared his naked body and his naked soul. If he were there she would bare her soul. She would tell him I’ve seen only you.

Her hands are his hands and eyes. Lovemaking is in the hands and in the eyes, though she’s no green, naïve girl. She knows there’s more to it than that. Mothers do not become pregnant with child by a mere gliding of hands or looks of longing. If that were the case Jaime’s eyes would have made her a mother already. Pleasure is not entirely given through the hands or the eyes either, though if that were the case, Jaime has given her pleasure after pleasure that has overflowed to the brim. And, that only accounts for this brief period he’s been in Winterfell. It also doesn’t even count her kisses. And those kisses…

She’s touched herself. Only enough times that she can count on her two hands, but she is aware of her sexuality and power. It makes her feel good. It has also made her feel guilty after, if only a little. The guilt has lessened with time, and while perhaps she has an itch to indulge and imagine Jaime as the one that touches and makes her feel good then in the hot pool, she refrains in the sacred space of the wood. Yet if lovemaking is in the hands and the eyes, things she has learned from living as an unintentional voyeur, witnessing couples indulge and love, she sees no qualm with tracing her body in the water, thinking of Jaime with her. He is rapt, and he is hers. They kiss. That’s another thing about lovemaking. It’s in the kisses. She’d rather have a thousand kisses and live a thousand nights in his eyes than anything else. To try different sorts of kisses as well would be akin to paradise. Slow ones, hungry ones, ones like the time on the ramparts that are desperate and taste of longing and a thousand nights they would likely never have.

She sees him outside the castle after she leaves the pool and the woods. They have those nights now, and this man that’s captured her mind and enraptured her heart. He’s up about, and robbed in fur that makes him more direwolf than lion. He looks less like a man that was laying in his brother’s bed with a bandage around his torso and more like a fallen god.

He sees her. He waves. He smiles. He’s about to meet her halfway. He doesn’t pay attention to anything else other than her, and that’s what makes him stumbles on his feet. It’s not so much a fall like the fall after battle, but a small trip across the ground that elicits him to cry out and stop in his tracks to regain his footing and wounded pride. He looks around, making sure no one noticed. Thankfully for him, his brief moment of off-balance was only for Brienne’s eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asks, putting her arms on his shoulders to steady him.

“I’m alright now. Really, quite alright.”

He takes all of her in, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She would point out that they have only been apart for three hours at most, but she’s too mesmerized by his eyes. Lovemaking is in the eyes and the hands.

Her hand still on his shoulder, he reaches to keep it there. His thumb brushes against the top of her hand. Brienne craves for a thousand more times Jaime Lannister will put his hand on hers, it is true. She hopes he will always look at her with awestruck wonder. She likes it as much as his kiss. To have a thousand more kisses…

Yet she cannot deny that for as much as lovemaking is in the hands, eyes, and kiss, as their bodies touch and glide against each other, she aches for that little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oook so rating will change pretty soon :)


	8. Claim

Lovers should freely be affectionate in public, or at least that’s what Brienne has garnered from living as an inadvertent voyeur. That is what she would hope from a lover, for them to claim her as theirs and be unafraid to kiss her and be affectionate. Until recently she hasn’t been able to hold out much hope, so she hasn’t conceivably thought being affectionate with a mate in public as a possibility, or to be claimed by them. Yet she knows that lovers in public may hold hands, kiss, even share looks that speak of what will come later when they’re alone. Never a lover herself and never able to speak a lover’s language, Brienne has interpreted those facts, ingrained them. The looks of shared longing for the night she’s witnessed are the most foreign to her. _Teach me,_ she wishes to ask of Jaime. _Show me what happens in the night._ He’d show her tenderly, as best befits his newfound softness.

It’s not yet near night as they stand in a crowd of hundreds when Jaime lightly leans part of his weight against Brienne, the funeral pyres burning brightly. They only touch at the shoulders, arms, and part of their legs, yet she has a sweet taste of what the two of them as lovers could be and what language they’ll speak. You’d have to really look at the two of them to see how he leans, and she leans upon him in turn as if it makes their souls one, but Pod who stood nearest before he left certainly saw something something. She wished more than anything he would take her hand so more people could see. She craves to be claimed.

She greedily takes what she has. It’s no small measure of thrill to find that Jaime Lannister has no qualms with being lightly affectionate with her in front of hundreds. Grief unites, it’s true. Perhaps it’s only that, but still they speak a language of their own in small whispers. Yet perhaps the small whispering ways are the best ways.

“Perhaps we should go in,” Jaime suggests, bundling up in his cloak. While she’s grown accustomed the North, her sweet Southern Summer boy hasn’t. Indeed, many others have already left. Pod of course, and then his brother Tyrion a little after, lured by the promise of wine before the feast. Sansa though is still there, unmoving as a statue near one of the burning pyres, watching the smoke still rise as the fire subsides. Brienne walks with Jaime, still thinking of Sansa until they’re inside the gate. She turns back. Sansa is still there. Jaime, meanwhile, waiting for her, stands puzzled that she turned back.

“Go on,” she says to him. “I’ll be here.”

“Do you tire of me?”

He looks as though she struck him. “Oh, it’s not…it’s not because…” she stammers, flummoxed, yet touched that he would be insulted she would turn him down again like she did earlier in Tyrion’s room, as this time she’s not bound by any duty as Sansa’s sword and shield, and she only has another duty of a friend.

"Do you like being with me?” he asks, his face still stricken. Her eyes must have narrowed or she must have made some expression of annoyance, as Jaime stiffens and looks at his boots. In truth she’s only surprised. His question came unwarranted. She did let him follow her around since before the funeral. She realizes he could have mistook her shocked glances at Northmen regarding them as they milled about as an annoyed glances at his own self trotting around with her, but truthfully she was only surprised that others could have quite possibly regarded them as a couple. She liked it. She liked it a lot.

Brienne unconsciously looks around then, aware she’s in the presence of her not-lover-yet-more- than-friend in front of many people. A few bearded Northmen have seen this current display of Jaime’s doubt and Brienne’s attempts to ease it as well as they’ve seen Jaime follow her. Pride flushes at being seen again, but she ignores it as well as the crowd. Jaime is what matters.

She decides to cup his face in her hands. It’s deliberate, and she does it slowly enough to where he could back away if he so wanted, but he answers her breaking the distance between them and reaching out by reaching out a little in turn. He expected closeness but not this closeness that makes him vulnerable. His eyes are wide with surprise that she would do such a thing and cup his bearded cheeks to allow their eyes to lock. She makes him vulnerable and he accepts. It's the sweet whisper of intimacy.

He has soft eyes again, soft eyes only for her, and he wraps his fingers around her wrist, keeping her where she is. He looks at her and holds on as if this is a precious gift and he can’t believe it’s real. He holds on  
as if he would die if she didn’t stay with him.

“Now where did that come from Ser Jaime?” she asks, remaining reasonable, remaining tender by ruffling his beard a little with her fingers. Between prickly and soft, his beard and indeed his head of hair cannot even be called blonde anymore. It’s a darker, dull brown, and though he sports not a hint of grey on his head yet, it lightly dapples the end of his beard. It reminds her he has more years on her, but his slightly ridiculous, boyish question and her comforting him in turn could mistake her as the older one.

“Do you like it, Ser Brienne?” he asks, chuckling at her light fingers that have continued to unconsciously paw at his scruff.

“Yes,” she says without thinking twice. Not that a Jaime without a beard and with shorter hair is harder to look at, but she recalls a comment he made once offhand after they were captured, his sword hand newly lost. _She’ll hate this. I look less like her now._

Now however, Jaime has moved on. Told her just that. Brienne, mind racing far more than it should, interprets Jaime’s act of keeping a beard as a subtle act of rebellion against his sister, and further proof that he is less a Lannister than Cersei. Part of it was surely necessity of course. The journey to Winterfell from King’s Landing isn’t short. Packing shaving gear for the journey would be going a bit too far. He also likely thought he should have some anonymity with a beard. What little good it did him, he walked freely in Winterfell for five minutes before Bran Stark announced the Kingslayer’s arrival. Still, she hopes he will not shave or cut his hair back how it used to be when he was part of the Kingsguard. In fact, she’d go as far as to hide all razors in Winterfell.

“It’s not a hindrance?” he asks, brushing his fingers against her wrist. His gentle hand make her feel delicate, even as she stands slightly taller.

“Why would it be a hindrance?” she wonders, basking in what she only interprets as her own feminine delicateness. Only for Jaime.

He’s merry in his eyes, and his smirk is cocky. “Well…”

He shifts his face slightly, leaving a scruffy kiss against her palm. It makes her giggle, and he laughs when she laughs. Unexpectedly and eliciting another laugh, he pulls her closer into him.

She wraps an arm around his neck while the other rests against his back. “No,” she whispers, and they’re merely a breath away from more. “Not at all.”

“Oh. Well. Good. Shaving can be a nuisance. But I am curious…” He smooths his beard with his fingers. “Why do you like it so much?”

The answer is rather simple. He is hers when he is as he is, bearded and with longer hair. He’s Brienne’s Jaime that way and not anyone else’s.

“I just do,” she answers, Jaime’s hand resting on the small of her back. A little lower and things would be interesting.

“What else do you like? Do you like my company?”

She raises her brows. “Jaime…”

“Ah, please answer me,” he begs. “Please.”

“I am not adverse to your company,” she says, not wanting him to win in this little game he’s begun. “I told you earlier to go in without me because I only want to check on Lady Sansa. Now go on to the hall and have a drink. I’ll be there soon.”

He doesn’t put in any effort to move however, again.

“I like you right here with me,” she assures. “I am quite sure I have made that abundantly clear. But should you ever need me to reassure, I will. I’ll always reassure.”

“Would you like to seal it with a kiss?”

She glances to the group of Northmen behind her, bearded and shifting and trying very hard not to draw attention to the fact that they are raptly interested in the Kingslayer paired alongside Lady Stark’s sworn sword and shield. She could kiss Jaime in front of them. She would enjoy it too. So long she has seen others indulge before her, hurting her and wounding her without meaning to. It was her fault it wounded her, but how could observing a language she would never learn not hurt at least a little? And now, when the matter to at last indulge is quite literally in her grasp…

She moves in for what she expects to be a passionate, scruffy kiss, but just at the moment their lips should touch, Jaime’s fingers stop her, pressing lightly at her lips. Her brows furrow. He was so in want of a kiss, practically begged her for it, but to stop her all of a sudden leaves her wounded.

“Tormund Giantsbane is looking at us,” he whispers. “He’s going to get jealous…"

“Jealous, why would he be jealous? I can kiss whoever I damn well—”

“Ah, Lady Brienne. He’d be very sad. And kisses are for private.”

“I disagree. They don’t have to be. And Jaime you know we have been acting as a—”

He kisses her palm hand again, intercutting her, and she remembers a previous situation he was in with a lover, and why exactly he may feel that passionate kisses are for closed doors. It makes her think that this much outward spectacle with Jaime is a gift.

“Don’t be long,” he asks of her. “I’ll be looking for you. This is ‘later’ after all.”

After Jaime saunters away, casting one last look at her, Brienne peaks behind her. There indeed is Tormund Giantsbane, staring at her with his mouth agape. She waves. Sheepishly, he waves back. Since she met the man he’s been giving her funny, ridiculous looks that looked far too much like the looks of the boys on Tarth when she was a child. Back then, when her father held parties for her to see if he could make her a suitable match, her young eyes saw boys with wide, amazed eyes. She interpreted those looks as looks that spoke of a fancy for her. Her older eyes know they were trying too hard to pretend. The acting and masquerade is obvious now, but back then she wanted to believe. With Jaime, she knows, but she wishes they would have kissed in front of everyone. She wishes she would do something grand in front of everyone so there’s no doubt. She is no plaything of any man. She wants to be Jaime’s mate. She wants to be his lady. And everyone should know she is. That seems reasonable.

With no time to think of her wants more, she meets Sansa by the pyre. “I thought I was alright,” she reveals, wiping tears away from her eyes with gloved hands, “but…”

She embraces Brienne, and Brienne embraces back. She promises she’ll be alright, she must be. Yet with Brienne, she allows herself a few more tears before she’s calm and powerful Lady Sansa again. She tells Brienne to go on, she’s sure the Kingslayer misses her, laughing a little, but once inside Brienne goes not to the grand hall where the beginnings of the feast are and where Jaime is, but to her room to put more wood on for later. She also changes her cloak for a different jacket. Yet in a stroke of something or other, she decides to go through her clothes in her drawers. Each piece is more masculine than the last, and there are no pieces of color save for one blue tunic that’s not quite the color of her eyes. She recalls that hideous orange garb she wore once, and how she had to trek all the way to King’s Landing in it. It rather turned her already little interest off to both dresses and colors. Yet she finds herself considering it again, donning a colorful dress. Breeches are easier to wear for some things, sparring one of them. Dancing though would be more fun in a dress, basking in the arms of a lover as skirts spin around. The trouble though is that she has no inkling of how to go about buying a dress. It should be the same as armor functionally, yet she doesn’t look forward to the snide comments of her yesteryears that she’ll surely get again. _You…in a dress? Ridiculous!_ One seamstress on Tarth said.

Yet still, it is a thought she has, to wear a dress and feel pretty, even without Jaime’s eyes upon her. Perhaps Sansa would help her if she asked. Then again, Jaime knows her measurements. He’s quite good at gift giving. A sword, a set of armor. A dress is a downgrade in terms of presents. So would be a bouquet of flowers. Yet she hopes he has it in his romantic heart to at least bestow her with a single flower, if not a bouquet. Perhaps she’d even wear it in her hair or tucked behind her ear. With grown out hair, which will happen if she doesn’t trim her hair soon, perhaps it would suit her. Or perhaps she wishes for too much.

She spent far more time mulling in her room than she realized, as when she enters the great hall the tables are already filled with stews, fresh brown bread and decanters of wine. People talk amicably, grateful to be alive and ready to celebrate that fact after so much somberness. Brienne observes Lady Sansa arrive from outside, and she takes a seat at the front of the room with the rest of the Starks along with Daenerys Targaryen, who has situated herself in the center. Brienne tries to spot Jaime. Yet before she can find him, she yelps at the feel of a hand slapping against her shoulder.

“We did it!” Tormund Gianstbane exclaims. “We went to battle against those icy fucks, and we live to see another day!”

His hand is still on her shoulder. As if she’s found herself in battle, Brienne dodges to the side, attempting to nudge his hand off of her. He does take his hand off, but in lieu of that he creeps closer until the long line of her body nearly encases his much shorter one.

“Yes, I am glad to see you survived,” she stammers, still trying to find Jaime. If his hair was as blonde as it used to be, she would have seen him already.

“Looking for someone?” he asks.

“Well, yes, I—”

“You should pay no mind to King Killer.”

“It’s Kingslayer,” Brienne corrects, bewildered. Tormund’s breath is heavy with wine. “And his name is Jaime.”

“Ah, if he wanted he would have gone after you long ago, from the first after he rescued you from that bear.”

“The…first?" she asks, perplexed. She needed time to decide she wanted him that way too, it wasn't just him who had to do some soul-searching and figure out their shared looks toward each other where more than friendly glances.

“He’d let everyone know he wanted you and not fool around like he has been and only go halfway," Tormund says in such a way that insinuates his own wants. Suddenly Brienne thinks he might be attracted after all. She can't believe it. All her life there were no men that wanted, and after the almost end of the world, there's two.

"He’d have no problems kissing you senseless in front of everyone," he continues, voicing things Brienne herself has thought. Tormund even goes on, speaks of things Brienne has already imagined from lovers. He doesn’t need to tell her, but she starts to imagine maybe, maybe, he’s right. Maybe Jaime would be bolder. Maybe he should be. And yet—

And yet Jaime kneeled before her and asked to serve her. They were playfully affectionate in a way that wasn’t the affection of just friends earlier that very day. He knighted her in front of everyone—including Tormund Gianstbane. She knows bloody well that he cares for her. Maybe not love, not as she does, but he doesn’t have to say it to know that when he looks into her eyes, there’s something there that's a little like love.

Still. It would be nice, she doesn’t deny it, if Jaime Lannister announced to Winterfell that Brienne of Tarth is not someone he lightly toys with, and claim her as his...

“Lady Brienne.”

And there he is. There he is.

“Jaime,” Brienne says, “there you are.”

He grins. “There you are.”

“It’s Ser Brienne,” Tormund, still there, sees fit to correct.

Jaime stands taller, inserting himself between Brienne and Tormund. “I made her Ser Brienne," he states. "I know. But…”

He holds out his hand for Brienne to take. She does. And when she does, he pulls her into his frame, right in front of Tormund Gianstbane and the hall of Winterfell.

“She’ll always be my lady,” he announces proudly.

He leads her to sit down on one of the nearby tables. Pod greets her, as does Tyrion. Jaime gets a stew bowl and artfully serves her, tearing out a piece of bread as well. It may not have been in front of everyone, but it was in front of one man and a few others sitting nearby who may have heard. He called her his. He took her hand. He did it with gusto and he was proud to do so. Showing his affection for her is no shame to him. It’s a privilege.

They are one step closer. He knows damn well she’s no plaything, she’s a lady. His lady. And the night is young. There is still time for more steps later, in the night when they're alone. 

 _Don't let me down_ , she silently prays as he pours her wine. _Please Jaime. Don't let me down._


	9. Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating to be on the safe side, but starting next chapter the fic will be full NSFW territory :)

Jaime is tapping his fingers against the table, wondering once again if he’s fooling himself about Brienne, when longingly and dreamily during this extended pause in their drinking, Tyrion says he misses Tysha.

 _Tysha._ Jaime freezes, affright and affronted with remembrances. He hasn’t heard that name uttered in quite some time. Yet wine-addled Tyrion, circling the rim of his goblet, longingly recalls the woman he once loved, with her long and dark hair and merry eyes who saw Tyrion as the only one that mattered and loved him desperately. So far removed from who the two of them were when last Tyrion spoke of Tysha, Jaime never suspected to hear it then in Winterfell. He drinks, alighted with shame, one of his worst acts. No good though, Jaime knows shouldn’t drink much more. The room isn’t spinning yet, but another glass and the floor won’t be so steady against his feet. He’s halfway to completely sloshed, an a little more than tipsy. Laughing was easier earlier with Brienne and drink, as was smiling. It always has been when he’s taken to the drink. Happy or sad, one end to the other. He’s a man of extremes but drinking makes it more so. Yet now that Tyrion has mentioned Tysha, that with a lack of Brienne propels Jaime from happy to mournful.

“It was all a sham of course,” Tyrion says, “but I miss what we had, even if it wasn’t real.”

“My only other relationship was a sham too,” Jaime mutters, shifting uncomfortably with more remembrances of a different sort. He must take another long swig of wine to bring that taste off his lips. It was poison, but it was dusted with a sweetness he greedily used to drink. If he tastes it again he’d die.

He laughs bitterly at it. He, Brienne, Pod, Tyrion and so many others survived the longest night of their lives, and meanwhile Cersei probably never slept better in the Red Keep. He’s so removed from her. He doesn’t even feel like her twin. He feels like his own man, his own soul, even as he struggles to forge a new identity.

“It’s behind you,” Tyrion says, not in his dream world with Tysha again. His brother always had a way of confirming is his own thoughts.

But still, Jaime thinks. “Is it?” he wonders.

Tyrion gives him a look. “Why did you come back here?” he asks, recalling that the last time he saw Jaime, he was running after Brienne. Tyrion says so too, while Jaime peers longingly at where Brienne once was before she left.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he says, mourning. _Maybe we shouldn’t._

Tyrion chortles. “Do you really want Tormund Giantsbane to take her away from you?”

“She didn’t drink,” Jaime says, circling the rim of his goblet as his brother did earlier. “Maybe she has someone else.”

Both Pod and Tyrion stare as if he’s not only the stupidest Lannister, but the stupidest man in Westeros. Jaime though thinks the worry is warranted. She’s Brienne. She emulates strength and gentleness, warmth. Who is he to call her his lady?

“She is a virgin,” Tyrion states flatly.

“She didn’t drink when you said so.”

Pod holds out a hand. “I think you—”

“Why did you even mention that?” Jaime suddenly demands from Tyrion, silencing Pod. “It hurt her feelings. Maybe she’d still be here if you didn’t. It doesn’t even matter if someone’s a virgin, insinuating it like it’s a problem is really quite—”

“If it doesn’t matter,” Pod says, silencing Jaime this time, “why are you so upset she didn’t drink?”

Another sip. The wine is less acidic and sweeter and tarter now than it was earlier. He’s been called a horrible drunk by his sister, shifting from happy to sad at a moment’s notice. He’s proving Cersei right. Like how the theme of broken promises and oaths is poison in the tale of fables his mother used to read to him as a child, proving Cersei right is a theme in the life of Jaime Lannister. He drinks again in his frustration, tears threatening to leak from his eyes.

Everything was going so well before. He took his lady from Tormund’s grasp, and he even got her to drink wine with him, Pod, and Tyrion. Daenerys Targaryen made Gendry the lord of Storm’s End. They toasted Arya Stark. Jaime however preferred the goings on of where he was to the goings on of others. He didn’t think he had ever seen Brienne so happy, so at ease. They toasted, and then they began a game. Served from the kitchens were vanilla apple tarts dusted with cinnamon. They were sweet from the vanilla, crisp from the apple, and buttery with from the bread. Brienne ate several. He didn’t even know she had a sweet tooth. It was something he decided to keep for later. Underneath the table, their legs were touching and a bit entwinned, and in his wine-addled imaginings, Jaime had a flash of her long, sinewy legs entwinned with his in bed after hours. “You have danced with Renly Baratheon,” he said, at one point during the game. She drank—but not before eyeing him in such a way that indicated she wouldn’t mind doing it again, only with someone taller than Renly and much more dashing.

Then Tyrion just had to say that, and Tormund Giantsbane just had to come back. Brienne left. Jaime followed. He followed until he decided to turn back, slumping back next to Tyrion and across from Pod, struck with the knowledge that he had no idea how to go about doing what he wanted to do. He was so close to meeting, so close to something before it dashed that he had no idea what to say or how to woo. He didn’t want to just ask. He wanted it to be seamless, and right. To just ask would be artless. And he was a knight, as was Brienne. They were naturally people of art, skill, and honor.

“What does it matter?” Pod asks again.

Jaime sighs at Pod’s question. He’s fully in the realm of sorrows now, when earlier he wanted to dance and sing, simultaneously thinking about various ways to make Brienne sing for him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says eventually, “except if it his her first, it should be perfect. It should be right.”

“Stop,” Tyrion says, holding out his hand dramatically. “I see what you’re doing.”

“I don’t see what I’m doing,” Jaime says, mind swimming.

“You’re stalling. There are no such thing as perfect moments. Only moments.”

He stares at the wine in his goblet. “Maybe she would rather have Tormund Gianstbane instead of me.”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion scoffs, “that’s why she kissed you.”

“Maybe she didn’t like it.”

“Oh Jaime what’s the matter?” Tyrion demands, done with games now. “Where is that golden lion that used to give out roses to the women before jousting tournaments?”

“Gone for the Winter,” Jaime replies, “replaced by a stunted house cat.”

Tyrion pokes at his arm, Jaime rubbing the spots. “You. Want. Her. Go after her.”

“I can’t,” Jaime cries, still rubbing. “I can’t.”

“Yes. You. Can.”

“I _cannnn’t_.”

He’s burying his face in his hand. He’s never had to woo in his life. Anyway, he’s terrible and no good at it. He used to play the game of course to the young girls who threw scented handkerchiefs at him during tournaments, and read about the art in books, but if he thinks back to his only relationship (as much as he wishes not to) he has never had to do anything. Nothing at all. They came into the world together. To Cersei, and later on, eventually, to him, what more proof was it that that they should be together? That they were meant to be? She made their dynamic one of them versus everyone else, a dynamic that said nothing mattered but the two of them and what they felt. For a while it made sense that Jaime and Cersei should be lovers. The lion and the lioness. It made sense back then when he was another man.

He’s not that man anymore. “I fucked my sister for years,” Jaime says. “ _Years._ Brienne doesn’t deserve to be—”

Before he can finish a hand whacks him across the face. In the force, wine spills against the wooden table. It didn’t hurt enough to truly sting, only knock him to his senses, but as Tyrion picks up the goblet and cleans the area, Jaime, shocked, stares at his attacker in a fuming confusion.

“Shut up about deserving,” Pod orders, a finger wiggling at him. “Think about everything that happened and tell me what you think she wants.”

“Me?” Jaime asks, filled with hope again.

Pod’s expression softens. “She thinks you’re a good man,” Pod says. “She vouched for you and saved you. If not for her, you’d have been fodder for those dead things. And she kissed you on the ramparts…and yes—I saw. She kissed you while she thinks Tormund Giantsbane… who’s crying by the Hound by the way…is nice, but ridiculous.”

Jaime’s eyes drift to where the Hound sits, several tables away. Tormund is next to him, and buries his read head into the Hound’s shoulder, the Hound giving up all hope to get the Wildling off of him, and handing him more wine to drown his sorrows away. It’s a tale Jaime knows too well, drinking sorrows away, though he wishes he knew the tale of romance better.

“She doesn’t like him,” Pod states flatly. “She likes you.”

He tries not to choke on his drink in dull surprise. “I know she likes me,” he says, “but does she want to—”

“Yes!” Tyrion and Pod nearly shout simultaneously, Tyrion whacking him. “For the love the everything go get her!” his brother demands. “How old are you now Jaime? Forty? Why are you acting fifteen? Go to her room. Bring wine.” He hands him his goblet and Brienne’s discarded one, along with a fresh pitcher of wine that they didn’t get to.

“Make my earlier statement one that’s no longer true,” Tyrion orders. “Go.”

“I…I don’t hope for that.”

Pod and Tyrion’s steely gazes let him know they don’t believe him for one moment. But it’s true. He can’t deny though that he’s thought about it. Her kisses are sweet fire and the thought of sweet touches and a sweet more bring forth a heady, hopeless arousal. Hoping however and thinking it as a certainty is far different however. What are the two of them anyway? He called her his family during the battle, but now that the battle that gave him a family is over and it’s only life, how can he spring from one part to the other? Or did it happen already with kisses on ramparts? Did it happen during the funeral, or when she tried to kiss him again? And why the bloody hell did he stop it? Why was he so worried Tormund would see? Perhaps being seen isn’t so bad. Perhaps he would have liked to be seen. He’s not used to being seen. The lion keeps their affairs of love in the den, he heard once. Also, he had to. He had to keep his children safe, he had to keep Cersei safe.

Except he doesn’t have to anymore. He can be with her in sunlight. She makes sunlight and she can keep him safe.

“I want to be with her,” he says, a dreamy sigh. The world spinning slightly from her left-over sun and from his drink. “I don’t have to hide it,” he goes on, breathless. “I can shout it to the entire room, I can tell everyone that Brienne is—”

“They all know anyway,” Tyrion says, and Pod nods.

He’s drunk off wine and her sun. “I want her,” he states.

Tyrion helps him up off the bench, almost kicking him off. “You want her?” he asks, “Then go to her! Go!”

“Maybe I should wait to make sure—"

Pod rolls his eyes. “She’s not taken by anyone!” he states. “She’s waiting for you to get off your arse.”

“But I don’t know where she is!” Jaime shouts. “How can I go to her and sweep her off her feet if I don’t know where she went off to?”

Pod says she likely went to her room and tells her where it is. “Go,” he orders for the final time. “It’s not hard. Go!”

“And he would know,” Tyrion points out. “Go! Do what you should have done earlier.”

Jaime looks at his brother, his earlier statement floating back. “I’m sorry about Tysha,” he mutters.

“Don’t be,” Tyrion says, and wine-drunk Jaime despises himself even more. “It was years ago.”

“Father was cruel,” Jaime mutters. _And so was I._

Yet he can’t say it to Tyrion. He can’t. Not tonight.

“You’re not cruel,” Tyrion says. “Now go. Be happy.”

“Are you happy brother?”

He gives Jaime a sad smile. “I’d be happier if you were happier.”

Be happy Tyrion says, and Pod agrees. He should be happy. They even think he deserves it, though he has his doubts. But he still wants. He wants things he cannot name, but Brienne and her sun are all part of those things. So he goes after her and chases happiness like his brother and Pod demanded, stumbling through Winterfell until he reaches the third door to the left in the section of the castle that houses the maester and other such important people of the household. He chases Brienne. Yet finally in her reach, behind her door, and finally steps away from paradise, he thinks he’ll be overwhelmed, swallowed whole, and left gasping for air. He thinks maybe it’s all a dream. He thinks with one touch she’ll be done with him and have had enough. She’ll mock him for his ineptitude and inability to woo. She’ll laugh at him. He can’t handle that from Brienne.

He’s about ready to leave. Leave to live another day without Brienne, sleep in a bed that’s not Brienne’s, if he even gets to have one at Winterfell. Maybe this whole thing is a sham. He’s never known romance to be like this, where it’s a slow fire that burns and burns until your whole body is on fire. Perhaps Tormund Gianstbane does deserve Brienne and not Jaime Lannister. He knew more immediately than Jaime that Brienne is once in a lifetime. And what is he but a dullard that insulted her when he met her, told her he wasn’t interested again and again until his body betrayed him at Harrenhal and she rose in the tub? Course even then he didn’t know. At the time he thought he had just been away from Cersei for too long. He knows better now. His body and soul knew him better than the dull fantasy he imagined with Cersei back then. He knew better when he knighted Brienne, and her smile was the sun when she rose as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. She may as well have been naked for him then, the way she smiled at him and bared her soul as he bared his. Only for her. He bares unmasked Jaime for her. Then they made love with their eyes in front of everyone—fully armored too.

She’s still a virgin however, in literal terms. She didn’t drink when Tyrion made his statement during the game, but Pod spoke the truth. He even said she’s waiting for his arse. But waiting for him to do what? Act like the cretin and fool he’s sure to act? He’s a one-handed knight that’s accustomed to a woman who touches roughly. He always touched back rough in turn. He wants to be gentle with Brienne, sweet. He wants to take his time and make her come against his fingers and his mouth and his cock. Gods, he was half hard recalling Harrenhal. He’s harder as he thinks of tasting her. He’s bursting at the thought of making her feel good, but he’s too worn to be her first, too tainted.

Not to her. Not to her. That’s Brienne. She sees the good.

She makes him believe.

His hand is on the door—that blasted door he’s been in front of for what feels like hours. It’s Brienne, he reminds himself. Brienne. He’s never been worried with Brienne. Even when she was his captor he lived in her presence drunk on sunlight and drunk off of her. He was not quick to understand his want, but he understands it then. He understands, and—

And the door opens suddenly. He has no recollection of knocking, but there stands Brienne, though she is without her jacket from earlier. She’s surprised to see him, but only briefly. Even with the floor wobbling underneath his unsteady feet, he sees her startling own realization that she shouldn’t be surprised Jaime has come to her door. She is not cruel when she sees him either, nor is she demanding. All those things and more he’s accustomed to. Yet she’s warm and sweet. She’s gentle. She doesn’t demand, she asks.

He has so many things planned to say. _I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, but I’m worried you’ll find me ridiculous and send me away, and I can’t be sent away by you. Please, not by you. If you send me away, I’ll die._

He won’t die. He knows he’s being dramatic. He’s always been the sort—and drinking makes it more so. Yet he wants to tell her that they’re alone now, for good. Until morning comes, cruel, they’re alone, and it’s much further away from the later they promised. Later is his favorite word. So many possibilities.

Instead, he says, “You didn’t drink,” and he walks through the door, the thing closing with a semi-loud thud, signaling a new chapter in the tale of Jaime Lannister’s first wooing. Two knights alone now. That’s the thing about the books he’s read and not lived through—they usually don’t share what happened when the door is closed. They don’t usually contain two knights sharing a bed either. It’s almost always a lady and a knight. This is a story of a different sort. It’s Jaime and Brienne. And in her room, where the story will play out…

It’s _hot._

“You keep it warm enough in here,” he says after putting the wine down, noting it’s Dornish origin before going to her open bed covered in furs, taking off his jacket. It’s not enough. He’s still hot. She speaks of how when she first came to the North, she learned you put more wood on every time you leave the room. It keeps it warm.

“Very diligent of you,” he mutters. “Very responsible.”

“Piss off.”

He’s wounded she would tell him, “piss off,” but it’s no worse than the gibes he used to make at her expense. Finding his footing on the uneven ground, he sees fit to mention the first thing he learned about the North is he hates the fucking North.

She’s unmoving, tall as a tree and just as still. “It grows on you,” she states.

“Like other things?”

She doesn’t answer. Shit, Shit, Shit. Maybe Pod didn’t know the truth. Maybe she has been taken. Maybe in that wide gap of time between the funeral and the feast she took Tormund’s offer. Tormund did personally tell Jaime he would ask her after the battle, and he had enough time to do so after she left his side. Maybe they had a tryst already and she’s decided romance isn’t for her. Maybe she’s decided she’s a knight now and shouldn’t concern herself with romance, because it makes most people dafter than they are already. He’s read many books—those are facts he knows for certain.

“What about Tormund Giantsbane?” Jaime asks, knowing he must know, though he may not want to, pouring wine for himself to distract. “Has he grown on you?”

He takes a large gulp while he waits for the answer. Bad idea, the floor is even wobblier.

Brienne meanwhile doesn’t answer for a moment, only cocks her head. “You sound quite jealous,” she notes.

Lions are never jealous. Neither are stunted house cats, but he must admit it. He does sound jealous. Fuck, he is jealous, even though jealousy isn’t becoming. It suits cravens and dullards, not Jaime Lannister. Jaime is suited for battle, for leading. For honor. For keeping oaths. For Brienne.

The heat is fucking stifling. He’s right by the fire and it’s damn near oppressive. He tries to take off his shirt, but he’s tingling all over both by the heat and by Brienne, that the laces he easily tied earlier will not unlace in his clumsy left hand. He begins to gnaw at his shirt in desperation, already feeling beads of sweat on his brow, but he feels Brienne’s hands whack away at his. “Move aside,” she commands, and she easily pulls him closer to do the job herself. If he was hard earlier thinking of her, he’s harder now by her grace and ease, and by the way she so easily takes charge. _Please don’t let her feel it,_ he thinks. _Please don’t brush against me Brienne…or do…please…please…get the hint…_

There’s a small problem in all this however. She still has her shirt on.

Well. He can’t have that. And not having that, his hand travels to the laces of her shirt.

Her hands freeze. “What are you doing?” she asks, something flashing in her eyes.

He tells her plainly in turn, he’s taking her shirt off. She doesn’t move and neither does he. She says his name, “Jaime,” like a prayer, and his heart leaps. It’s fire. Both hers, his, and the actual fire.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted?” she asks, before chortling slightly. “Why are you like this?”

Why is he like that? He’d very much like to know. He can however answer the previous question. “Because that’s…barbaric,” he replies, pitiful. “Just to ask? There’s no art in that. Tormund Giantsbane said he would ask after battle and—”

She appears surprised. “Tormund…wanted me?”

“Yes,” Jaime says. “You didn’t know?”

“I suppose, but…Jaime, that doesn’t matter. Why do you play these games?”

“It’s not a game,” he nearly wails. Shit, is he almost sloshed. “I wanted to sweep you off your feet.”

“Can you?”

The jape makes him laugh against his better judgement. She laughs too. Cheap japes do not belong in the bedroom, or so Cersei said once. Yet laughing with Brienne is easy. This is new and unexpected, to laugh merrily in the bedroom. He’s accustomed to the bedroom as a place of his surrender, and though there was a certain thrill, he never associated it with joy. This is all joy, all merriness and laughter. That’s all Brienne.

She holds his face in her hands again like she did earlier. He still chuckles, even as he adores the intimacy of it, the power of her eyes. She could drown him with her eyes and he’d never try to come up for air.

“I didn’t want to be turned down,” he admits, tentatively placing his left hand against the small of her back. He keeps his golden hand straight to his side, not wishing the awkward, heavy thing to make her uncomfortable. Then he shifts just so, and Brienne peeks below. Her eyes widen, and she swallows at the sight of him, the feel of his want. She must know certain things—a virgin is not necessarily naïve. Ashamed of it, he tries to move away.

She brings him back against her. It’s subtle too, but she rubs. He shivers. He mewls. _More._

“Jaime,” she breathes, “You act as though we haven’t been down this path since you came here.”

“This needs to be right,” he tells her. “You deserve it to be right. You—you…”

But he cannot find his words. She’s so beautiful in the fire with her bruises and with her hair combed for the night, eyes darker than what he’s used to seeing in daylight. Sapphire eyes. How did he not see it before? How did it take him all that time to see that Brienne is a goddess?

_You know now. You want her. You have her. Now…_

His kiss has no skill, so unlike the one she gave him on the ramparts, that was tender and consuming yet wonderfully soft. He rises a little to stand on the tips of his toes, taking and taking before falling back down because he’s being selfish, so she may take instead. Or maybe he’s still being selfish, because he wants her to take from him. She can take and take, and he’d still have more to give.

His eyes crack open a little as the kiss. He wants to make sure she likes it, though her eager and hungry mouth should be enough of an answer. But he just barely sees her, brows bent in bliss, stooping the tiniest amount to meet his lips. She’s happy and free. Just as much is he, Jaime. Her Jaime. That’s how they kiss, they both take and give in equal parts. It feels like his first time.

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” he says between kisses, moving down to her neck, pushing fabric down to expose more skin.

“I’ve never slept with anyone before,” she replies, breathless as she relishes his ardent mouth.

“You…have to drink,” he continues to mutter, though he’s more preoccupied with making her sing. “Those are…the rules.”

“I told you—”

He captures her mouth again. He kisses her deeply and sweetly. And when he parts, her eyes are still closed in a dream. She wants to go back. He’ll take her back, he vows. He’ll take her farther still.

He smirks. “Well,” he says, “It looks like I can sweep the lady off of her feet.”

But when she wraps her arms around him and moves him to the bed, he wonders if it’s more so the other way around.

Fuck, he’s looking forward to it being the other way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!!!!


	10. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelp, fully NSFW now <3 figured you guys should have a speedy update after the cliffhanger, heheh :)

“Jaime,” she breathes, tugging at the ends of his hair as he kisses her. “Shirt…off...”

She’s leading him to her bed. Or at least, she had begun to before she decided his shirt had to come off before anything. It does make sense, though it disrupts the momentum. He lets out a disgruntled humph when she stops them, her hands pressed against his thumping heart. Her heat is against his arousal. He dares not poke her with it or begin to thrust it out slightly in his slight impatient want, but he does pout at her sudden stopping, even if it’s for a good cause between the give and take of their kisses and his own rise and fall to meet her lips.

He stops her temporarily to fumble with getting her own shirt off. He succeeds with her help, and it’s discarded to the floor by the fire. He can’t drink her in like he wants or take off that band around her breasts before she turns her attention back to her earlier task of removing his tunic, Jaime lifting his arms for easier removal. The cloth gets caught in his golden hand. She touches his wrist that’s him and not the gold, holding him as she tears the shirt off. She still holds onto it, studying the craftsmanship in the firelight. He stands frozen, insides teeming with growing worry, and fear.

“Doesn’t it get heavy?” she asks him.

“No,” he lies.

“Should I—”

“No, don’t take it off,” he says. “Kiss me again.”

She hums when their lips meet again. He tastes a bit of the sugar from the apple cinnamon tarts mingled with the acidic wine. “Sweetling,” he rasps, before chuckling at the pet name his mind has found for her. She responds to the name by smirking against his lips. He asks if he should call her “wench” instead. In reply, she smacks his arm. It’s not hard, in fact it’s rather soft, but it amuses him he’s been smacked around so much, especially since the battle has already ended, replaced by a dance of lips and tongue and caresses that grow bolder. Though in the field she wears armor with pauldrons that give her more width in the shoulders, he’s naturally a little broader even as she stands just the barest bit taller than him. He can make her feel safe, like she does for him. He wants to make her feel as though she’s home. He wraps his arms around her, encasing, cocooning, shielding…

She cries out.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, hand cradling her face still, searching for answers. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she promises, breathless, and touched. “Jaime…it’s just cold!”

He becomes aware of the awkward mass of beaten gold, truly an ugly and gaudy thing against her bare skin. He’s about to remove himself from her, back away to the furthest corner of the room, thinking he’ll have to remove it and endure shame when she can’t stand the sight of his stump, but she answers his flash of awkwardness by wrapping her arms around him, tight yet gentle. She shields him, keeps him safe, kisses him. The Lannister gold is part of him, and she wants all of him. She’ll take him with it on. How he’s lost. He’s lost and he wanders through her lips and through her body, wandering with no plans to find his way out.

Brienne leads him instead, so he doesn’t have to worry. She leads him, finally, finally, to the blasted bed, sitting down and trying to pull him atop her. His lady is certainly not unknowing of how matters work, he thinks with a smirk as her knee purposely and deliberately rubs against his arousal. He can feel himself leaking with the before in his breeches, yet he’s strangely calm. He thinks to before Brienne, as much as it pains him to. He thinks of the the spells _she_ cast, turning him into a madman and fiend, taking and taking because she herself took and took with no care for him. He can be a lion in bed, but he has no desire for that, always has been before. Not tonight. Not again. He wants to be soft and slow. He wants to be gentle. He has no desire to just take. He only wants to give. If it was demanded of him to only give, give and give, he’d do it for Brienne. She wields his renewal.

Yet as he slides his clothed and engorged cock over her leg and her cheeks bloom red with wonder, he himself wonders what sort of encounter she has expected. A few kisses before he rips off her breeches, slides inside and spills on her belly? Certainly Brienne is too romantic to expect an encounter without any art or passion. She may have scoffed at womanly and soft things in the time that he has known her, but he’s starting to suspect her scoffing was a mask and shield in the same veins as the ones he wore and wielded. Brienne can be both warrior and romantic. It is possible to be both one who dances, fights, eats sweet treats and makes love like a passioned wildcat simultaneously. That’s Brienne: warrior and woman. She stands proudly as both. Brienne should be followed in battle as well as wooed, placed on a pedestal, and have love songs composed in her honor. One springs to mind, "Brienne the Maiden and Warrior Fair," perhaps her song can be called.

For Brienne the maiden and warrior fair, Jaime Lannister, no common dullard by any means, would not seek to use her as a vessel for his own pleasure. He’ll make her feel good when he touches her. He’ll make her sing. He’ll let her use him as she sees fit, let her tell him what to do. What privileges he’s been allowed, what a gift he’s been given in getting to give to her.

He doesn’t blanket her body with his quite yet. Somehow, he finds a way to resist her arms, knowing it is for a specific cause and want he has. As her arms continue to seek to bring the two of them more comfortably on the bed, he kneels beside her instead at the edge. She pouts and nearly whines, yet he doesn’t follow her silent command to purposely disobey and drive her to anger. He wants to worship. When he kneels then, he kneels in reverence. Perhaps it’s ingrained she’s his goddess of the eve and eternity, as she follows his lead by sitting at the edge of the bed, her long legs on either side of him. His left hand rests on her thigh as his other arm wraps around her hip. She spreads her legs further. Jaime drinks her in. She’s kissed by an outline of fire, bruised from battles of new and old. He sees where the bear clawed her once in another life, and that is what compels him most of all. He moves to caress the scars with gentle fingers. _I should have come back sooner. I should have never left her_. As he inwardly chastises himself, Brienne must read his thoughts, as her hand moves to his wrist, holding his hand there.

His fingers continue to ghost over the pinkish marks, both of Brienne’s hand holding his wrist. “Does it ever hurt?” he asks. Sometimes at night he can feel the slice of the blade cutting his hand, the phantom aches from the memory of the moment in time. He wonders if it’s the same for her.

“Perhaps,” she whispers. “Perhaps a little.”

Kneeling in prayer to his goddess, paying his respects before he writes a tale of worship on her skin, he senses a look in her eyes, couples with the feel of her trembling. It mounts panic—panic she may be frightened or worried. He cannot have that.

“Are you alright?” he whispers.

She swallows, but doesn’t reply. “Brienne,” he states, “we don’t have to do anything.”

He’s waited so long already. Perhaps it’s his punishment for being so craven all those years, not recognizing his stirrings for her as romantic, and then walking around Winterfell before battle without giving her a kiss for the afterlife in case they died. They didn’t die, of course, though he may just die then if Brienne sends him out and away. Yet would he deserve any less?

“Jaime,” she says, avoiding his gaze, “you’re drunk.”

“Sloshed,” he admits.

She still doesn’t look at him. Then slowly, if she’s afraid of the answer, slowly, until it all spills out, she asks, “would you have come to me if you weren’t? Would you want this if you weren’t? Would you want me?” And after, he’s kneeling by her, baffled and confused yet gentle and patient, promising “yes, yes, yes.” A thousand times yes.

“If we do this…” she begins, “What will happen after? Tomorrow, will—"

He silences her with a gentle finger to her swollen lips—swollen from his kissing. He asks what she wants, because now is what matters, not tomorrow.

Silence and quiet follow, only now at least it’s a quiet of the contemplative kind. When after moments pass and there’s still the sound of the quiet and silence, he sees fit to mention that at the start of this, she seemed very keen to tell him what to do. In fact, he was looking forward to it too.

She smirks, even as her eyebrows raise. “Would you even have listened listen?” she wonders.

It’s a challenge. He straightens his shoulders, proud. “In certain matters, I am a very good listener,” he asserts.

She heard his silent, subliminal message, _let me show you_. Oh, she heard.

“Then Jaime,” she says, wrapping a sinewy, long leg around him, “…make me…”

“What?” he asks, growing bolder as her hands that were still wrapped around his wrist loosens. He leans in, begins tugging at her breast band. He can’t unlace it with his clumsy hand so he starts to gnaw at the thing with his teeth before finally it falls from her breasts to the floor. She stretches, observing him observe her. The hazy image of her he managed to imprint at Harrenhal when he was delirious and half a corpse springs back in not his dreams as it always had before, but in his current and glorious waking life. He’s heard men make snide comments about her in King’s Landing, he’s heard his sister make comments about her in King’s Lading and the things she lacks in the dull past, yet Jaime sees Brienne of Tarth lacks absolutely nothing, only is. He sees the strength of her arms, the sinews and softness of her breasts and space in between. She’s littered with a few scars and bruises. yet the one from the bear is the most apparent, the part of her he’ll spend the most part kissing, along with another part.

“Jaime,” she sighs, leaving an unspoken plea unuttered.

He yearns to hear it. “What?” he beckons. “What sweetling?”

“Make me…”

He wants her to tell him exactly what she wants. He’ll know what best to do, and furthermore he likes it when she gives orders. “What?” he beckons once more as his tongue drags in that space between her breasts. “Make you what?”

“…feel,” she answers, stretching the long and graceful column of her neck, a column her tunics usually hide. Such a shame, though he has to admit a thrill at knowing her neck is only for his ardent eyes and mouth.

“Hmm, feel,” he repeats, searching for the subtext. “feel beautiful,” he decides, “Good. Perfect. Beautiful. More beautiful.”

“More?” She freezes. “Jaime, you don’t have to lie.”

He stops his ministrations when he wants nothing more than to continue the dance. Yet this is important. “I don’t lie,” he promises. “That’s not honorable and it doesn’t suit me. You suit me. This suits me…this…us…”

“Sweet talker…”

“You’re sweeter.”

“You…keep proving me right.”

He chuckles before continuing to kiss and nip and revere. She mewls, content as bearded kisses continue upward against her pulse point and against the scars, especially the scars. His hand moves to rest against her breast, thumb brushing against her nipple and making her gasp. She helps him help her out of her breeches. Gods, he’s never thought much of legs before this moment, until Brienne. They’re long and slender, yet calf muscles strain underneath his wandering hand as she flexes, quite aware he’s entranced by her contradictions of hardened warrior and almost dainty elegance. Truly, clothes hide her elegance and she hides her elegance, yet Jaime sees, knows. Spellbound, he grabs a hold of an ankle as the ball of her other foot presses into his back. She lets out a long and delighted giggle as he kisses her arch and then ankle. His bearded mouth kisses every expanse of her long leg and then the other before he kisses those parted inner thighs that further spread for him. The smell of her arousal is strong, even as he laves and nips the pale skin of her thigh. He wonders if it’s registered what he intends—what he hopes to do— but he dares not touch, dares not continue his reverence. Not until he knows.

A soft pop fills the room as he lightly whacks her knee. She laughs. He caresses her thigh, barely touches the soft curly hair of her mound. She bites her lip. She scoots closer to his face, a silent command that grows louder and clearer when she wraps her fingers around his neck. She pushes his head between her thighs. He wanted to be told, he wanted her to demand. He got his wish. He reveres. When he pleasures her, he doesn’t demand from her a quick and rushed climax, but is slow, lightly blowing air at her pearl to begin, feeling her body shudder before he used the light tip of his tongue to encircle and tease. He laps, moves to taste her pooling arousal. Moans sound off louder. He hums, vibrations allowing her more waves of pleasure. He’s greedy so he adds his fingers to the sensations, pressing a long single digit inside, thinking of his cock encased and wrapped around instead, clenching as she clenches around his finger. Even still, louder she moans. On the battlefield she is not quiet, and that translates to the bedroom in spades. Delighting him, thrilling him, he peers at her from where he greedily grows drunk at the taste of her. She’s rosy and flushed, head thrown back in bliss, and she tugs and musses his hair, digs her nails into his shoulder. When she comes for him she coats his beard and she coats his mouth, the lingering taste on his tongue salt and Brienne. As he himself recovers from revering he finds her tumbled on the bed, cupping her breasts in her hands. She laughs, merry and free. Wetness in his beard and hand, sweat on his brow, her taste on his tongue, and her contagious laughter filling the room, he’s never found himself more at home. This is home.

She meets his gaze, laughter still in her eye. She commands, “more,” and he thinks of his own wants he’s pushed aside, how they should be the only thing on his mind, and yet they aren’t. Meanwhile Brienne, dissatisfied with his pace at moving things along (indeed his mental quandary caused the delay, that and her radiance.) she rises and brings him to his feet. She unlaces his breeches and yanks them off along with his smalls, and when she’s face to face with him and his obvious want, she takes his wrists and guides him to the bed.

He kicks off his boots as she throws her head against the fur pillows, his hands on either side of her as he covers her long body. All the same height in bed, he remembers with a smirk. She scratches his back and grasps his rear—how easily she did that, he thinks, though he minds it not one bit. In fact it urges him to slide his cock against her leg. Eagerly, she parts as he kisses her. Her taste, his favorite taste his ever tasted, mingles against her tongue as she deepens the kiss. Not even inside her, only kissing her and feeling the strength and gentleness of her naked body gliding against his, and it might be experiencing the most extraordinary favorites. She moves by sweet instincts, possess yet doesn’t own him with the way she touches him, and makes love with her eyes. He feels slow to move, slow to act and slide inside her, yet not for lack of will or desire. It’s merely what suits them. He’s enflamed, enraptured. But they’re together, and it’s so fucking good, that instincts lead him to slow.

Besides, there will be many more times after this. Many.

“I have a wonder,” he breathes, still slow as Brienne cupps his face in her hands. It’s another one of his favorite things.

“Mhmm,” she breathes, craning her neck upward for Jaime to kiss. “Now?”

“Hmm, yes. Now,” he mutters, chuckling into her open mouth. “I wonder… was that the first time that you’ve…?”

“Would you like me to say yes?” she asks with a laugh, wrapping a leg over him.

He pulls it closer—he’s in love with her legs. “Have you touched yourself before?” he asks, a touch bewildered.

“Haven’t you?”

“Well…yes,” he admits, not so ashamed of it as perhaps he would have been as a boy, but amused. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so bewildered—she’s proven since first he walked into her room she’s a virgin, but not naïve.

“Hmm. But…” She pulls him closer. “I like your mouth better,” she whispers in his ear. “I like you touching me more.”

He’s rushed with happiness and pride. Still, he sees her in his imaginings, naked and in furs, touching herself. It makes him rub his cock against her.

“Show me,” he whispers back. “Sweetling. Show me.”

“Later Jaime.”

“Right,” he replies, dreamy, moving in for another kiss. “Later.”

It’s his favorite word, later. Anyway, it’s an absurd request for the present, he realizes. He’s here with her. He’s touching her and loving on her after too fucking long. He’s such a fool, such a lost fool as she calls out his name and wraps her hand around his cock. Slowly, she slides up and down. He bites his lip and moans, tries not to crash against her body. He’s a weak man. He waited too fucking long. He’ll make up for lost time.

He should tell her to stop touching him— any more of this and he’s going to spill onto her belly and her hand, yet he can’t find his voice. Part of him wants to come whilst looking into her eyes like this, have this all entirely at her mercy. And then it hits him as she leans upward, capturing her lips with his before her head settles back against the pillow. She has no intention of stopping. She likes what she’s doing. He likes she likes what she’s doing.

It makes his eyes flutter shut in bliss. He calls out her name in all it’s iterations: Brienne, Lady Brienne, Ser Brienne. My Brienne, and then it’s all reduced to a single syllable of _Bri._ He feels the power of the sea and the storm, mounting and mounting. “Look at me,” she tells him. “I want…”

 _To see._ He opens his eyes. Her mouth is slightly parted, her eyes filled with adoration. They’re like two sapphire isles, like her home, like his home. She is home. He should have never have closed his eyes. _Never live with your eyes closed again._

With a ragged gasp of her name, he’s finished with overwhelming pleasure, a bottle filled with too much water that now sweetly shatters. Ragged and panting, his perspired brow nuzzle hers, not unlike a lazy house cat. His hair is sweaty, the room is still bloody hot, and Brienne is aflame and covered in his seed. He’s blissful for what feels like an eternity, and then—even as Brienne smooths back damp bangs, he’s embarrassed.

He feels his cheeks turn hot, even as one rests against her collar. He has to apologize. He does, a thousand times. “What’s wrong? Why are you so sorry?” she asks, filled with concern, even as he hides away his face from her.

“It…that…uh…”

“Jaime.”

He peers at her, finally. Her brows are furrowed, concerned.

He sighs. He tells her the truth, the truth that he didn’t even make love to her, even though it’s not so much of the truth if she already knows it.

“It’s not like we didn’t do anything,” she notes.

He sighs again. “I know, I know,” he replies, “but we didn’t get to…”

“Why are you acting like we can’t do this again?”

“I don’t know…”

She kisses his damp forehead before nudging him gently off of her. He retreats to the left side of the bed while Brienne rises to rummage around her bedside table. She pulls out a dark cloth, wiping his spend off of her hand without complaint. Watching, he takes the cloth from her and cleans her off himself. He does it in part because he’s no cretin, but mostly in part because he wants to marvel. Gods, he didn’t even enter her or let her come for a second time, and she’s this beautiful and satisfied. She’s sparkling eyes, messy hair, and a flushed and rosy face. She’s goddess of the furs and firelight and just as statuesque. Strength and sinews and woman and beautiful and home.

“Are you alright?” she asks, touching his cheek.

“Yes,” he replies, strangely touched. He’s never been asked that before. “Are you?”

She nods, enthusiastic, radiant. They move to their sides, kiss some more. He had kept the golden hand on the entire time, he realizes dully. Not so unusual, he’s used to that, though he’s more aware of it now that they’re in an afterglow, careful to use his arm as a cushion for her head and not hurt her with the hard gold. He wants to take it off and yet he thinks of all possible looks she could give and that he’s seen in the past. He can’t do it, not when he’s not adequately prepared for something he can’t bear. Later, he will be. He’ll have to be. Not now.

They kiss. She asks no questions of where they will we go from here or what’s next. He appreciates it, because in truth, he doesn’t wish to think of it now. He wants to be home and make love again…enjoy his home for the time being.

He feels her kiss his forehead after a final lingering press of lips against lips. “Sleep,” she whispers.

“Will you?” he replies. He wants to sleep with her.

“I’ll be here,” she answers. “I will.”

He reaches for her hand, squeezes. “Please don’t leave,” he begs.

“Don’t you either.”

“Never,” he promises, eyes closing, tides lulling him to sleep. “Can’t…leave home.”

He feels her move a blanket over him, wrapping their sated bodies in warm fur. He pushes it down a little, not wishing to become too hot during the night. She pets his hair, peppers him with small kisses.

“I can’t leave home either,” she promises.

Home. He’s said it, she’s said it now too. Perhaps it’s only the thought of two happy drunks, and indeed he is drunk. He’s drunk off of Brienne and perhaps she’s drunk off of him. Or maybe it’s the thought of a happy, content man in love with his lady and knight. But it’s not something that frightens him, only something he knows to be true—not least of all because in Winterfell he has no other place to sleep or call his own. Indeed, he can’t think of another bed so fine and comfortable as Brienne’s, even if it is too hot in the room for his liking. But if he wasn’t in her bed, how could he kiss her so easily, or have her arms around him? He’d rather be hot with Brienne then content without her. Brienne is home. Who wouldn’t rather be home than anywhere else?

“Why are you smiling?” she asks, still caressing his hair and his body, leaving him a lazy and content house cat.

“Because I’m happy,” he whispers, before falling into a blissful and dreamless sleep, happy, and home.


	11. Clear

Hours might have passed, or it might have been only minutes since sleep claimed Jaime Lannister. He fell so easily in her bed, fell as if it was his own. It makes Brienne grin. For isn’t sleep easier when you’re at home?

So long without him. More time without than with, and now they act almost greedy together in what might be for good. Together, yet never like this before, there is no period of getting used to it or growing accustomed to it. It's as if he’s always been there, always slept in her bed. Perhaps that is why her room in Winterfell has always felt strangely empty, it was ingrained somehow that it was both Brienne's and Jaime's. Asleep in his room too, his breathing is rhythmed and steady, his chest softly expanding and contracting with each gentle breath. If he dreams, he dreams of pleasantries. _Wake up,_ she wanted to tell him at first. _Wake up so I may kiss you, do other things with you. Much more pleasant things are in waking life, Ser Jaime._ How early she wanted more time to kiss, more time to talk and be with the little boy inside the man who had become more apparent when he was drinking and with her. She realized only a little later she selfish in her want. She realized he needed sleep. Eventually, she settled into a peaceful dream laying by his side, even while she remained awake. Still there with him, she makes memories of a togetherness of a different sort, and prays it will not be tainted when he wakes, prays that he will not leave.

He came to her room, she reminds herself. He wanted her. He came with a breath heady with wine, but he came to her. Yet drink takes away doubts in the moment but brings regrets later. Will he regret come morrow? He said he wanted it to be right. She knew she should have stopped it because of that, wait a little until with sober eyes he looks at her and says I am yours forever, but his mouth was too adoring, his lips too needy and his taste sweeter than the wine they drank. She was already intoxicated by him from the first. So she consciously didn’t stop them. She wanted Jaime, and he answered most ardently, damn if it would be tainted later. There could be no stopping what she waited so long for.

No, she thinks to herself. _It won’t be. I know him, I know him._

She knows him like no other, has seen the gleeful, adoring boy inside the man. It strips away remaining doubts and reminds her she should fall asleep too, though she doesn’t wish to fall into dreams, not just yet. Not when Jaime is facing her, eyes closed, his arm is lazily slung around her waist, legs entwinning with hers, and she’s using his right arm as a pillow of sorts. In dire moments of her life she turns to her collection of fond memories of comfort. There’s only a few she can turn to in the scheme of things, yet in the matter of days Jaime has given her so many more. A knighthood, and all that it stands for, and the way he looked at her after. Kisses. So many kisses. He’s called her his lady. He’s been jealous of another man. He came to her, drunk yes, but he came to her, and he gave her his mouth. He’s chosen to stay with her. He’s called her his home. He’s given her more trinket-like memories to store into a treasure box to hold onto and think of again in sorrow. He sleeps by her side, and it’s another bauble to hold onto and cherish.

No, she doesn’t sleep or wake him. She treasures what she has.

At first she’s afraid to move or touch him, but he sleeps deeply and soundly, so she grows bolder when she shifts her leg a little, the side by side position they’ve found themselves in causing her limbs to fall asleep. She moves both in practicality and desire. Kissing him is a dream, but you cannot admire one’s appearance when you kiss. Nor can you really when you are being pleasured. Brienne indulges then, admires then in the firelight that still burns brightly.

Seeing him in the nude isn’t a novelty, though she was shyer at the baths of Harrenhal, not keen on observing, not in love with him as she is now. She makes up for her shyness and ignorance of later events in strides, gazes with longing at her man, basks at being his woman. Jaime is different now than he was at Harrenhal those years ago. He’s better feed, and he’s healthier, stronger. He’s in her bed, naked as he was the day of his name day, and he’s sought her out so many times, called for her. He was passionate when worshipping her. He was needy even. He’s planted himself firmly at her side with seedlings from everything that led them together. It makes her believe he intends to root himself to her and they can grow these seedlings together, turn them to sunflowers.He takes her breath away. When she ran her hand through his hair in passion, it ruffled it, Unlike before, fringe doesn’t fall straight across his forehead, but sticks out in different directions. Golden hair lightly dusts his chest. She runs a tentative finger through it before growing bolder. His chest is strong underneath her palms, and so are his arms and shoulders. Broad shoulders taper to slim hips and long legs. On his abdomen are his most recent scars, and claw marks from the Long Night. It’s healed well, and she gently skims the pads of her fingers over the three parallel marks. The same color of hair on his chest lines his lower abdomen. And—she peeks down— leads to that part of him that has discovered she loves to touch. He makes such intoxicating noises when she does, when she strokes his cock. _What if I kiss him there, I wonder?_

She leans in and kisses the tip of his nose, the easiest thing to reach. It doesn’t wake him, even as she can’t help but litter him with her touch. His arms, shoulders, slim hips and fleshy behind. He liked it when she touched him there—she saw that grin when she squeezed. She caresses his face once more, shivers when she conjures the feeling of the neither soft yet not prickly beard against her calves and thighs. She really will hide all the razors at Winterfell if need be. That beard of his adds all sorts of sensations when he kisses and leaves light pinkish marks on her skin.

_I am littered with his ardent mouth. I am littered and drunk off of Jaime Lannister. Kingslayer, keeper of oaths. Beautiful man. One who defies. Teacher._

Yes. Jaime, one who defies, teaches her his ways, and has been since they’ve met again and since he’s come to stay. (If she dares to interpret his looks of longing at her as such, and yes, she does dare both boldly and softly.) He teaches her she can defy and stand as both one who blazes as a fiery warrior in the battle and goddess in the bedroom. She can slash and cut and endure and survive to stand loudly in triumph. She can also be that same woman who touches her lover gently, invite him into her arms lovingly, and come softly when he wills it. In bed he makes her a subject and a queen, and a beautiful, alive, goddess and worshipped woman. He didn’t make her so or tell her. He wielded the key to unlock. Jaime. Kingslayer to the world and her own breaker of chains. Only for her.

Undeniably, she is greedy for more. She both wants it all now and wants them to take her time. The luxury to be slow as honey drips is now afforded to them. The long night ended with a whimper. The sun rose and life still spins. The sun rose for Jaime and Brienne to act as lovers do and indulge. So she wonders: what rush is she in?

_Take Jaime Lannister softly and slowly. You cannot drink all of the sun in at once. You must take it slow. Slow…_

She shifts only slightly and yelps. The golden hand hits her hard against the head, and she reluctantly retreats away from his arms to the corner of her side of the bed, removing all the blankets off of herself and him and rubbing and ruffling the spot against her head. There’s the cruel reminder, there’s the rub. He didn’t take it off. He wanted to keep it on, and because she’s in love with the man as he is, she accepts the Lannister part of him. Is he not quite ready to leave that part of him? Will he ever? Is it only that he doesn’t wish her to see?

As she wonders he shifts, his left hand against furs, twitching slightly. He fell asleep so easily holding her. Already attuned to her, even his dream-addled mind knows she has gone, even if it’s not far. “I’m sorry,” she absurdly says to his sleeping form, crawling back to his side. She holds his cheek. “I won’t leave home,” she promises.

She kisses his forehead, and though she selfishly wants him awake to apologize, she finds contentment the same way she has been, drinking in the lion that sleeps, caressing his chest and the few scars that line him here and there from battles won and lost. She chuckles after she whispers his name, after a while, Jaime. No response from him—of course not—he’s asleep. However, this might be the best time to speak with him. Asleep he can’t quip back at her. Asleep, she can tell him she loves him, and she doesn’t have to hear _I’m sorry._ Asleep, she also can’t hear _I love you too._

“I know what your eyes say,” she says.

A single finger outlines his defined jaw obscured by whiskers and draws a line down to his chest. The male form is intriguing, Jaime Lannister’s the most of all.

“Beautiful man,” she mutters. “I—"

The sleeping man chuckles, and Brienne finds the sleeping man wasn’t sleeping at all.

As the light laughter turns to a chuckle, her jaw drops. “Ah, Brienne,” he says, her realization dawning. She scolds him with a sharp Jaime! and he grins, broad and merry, still laughing.

“Hello my lady,” he greets. “Good morrow. I suppose. Is it morrow?”

He turns his head and sees it isn’t, not quite. He settles back against the pillow, and her. “You were awake?” she asks.

He caresses her back, pulls her in closer, smile still playing on his lips. “Only for a little,” he admits. “You were playing with my chest hair.”

“I wasn’t,” she insists, wondering if he heard, not sure if she wants or doesn’t want him to know the words were uttered.

“You were,” he himself insists. “I know.”

“I touched,” she amends, knowing she’s caught. “I did.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, and she wonders how many times since he’s been with her he’s had a grin that broad, since he’s smiled so much.

“Bri,” he breathes, a name he's bestowed to her, one she likes. He caresses the long line of her neck. "You touch rather well.”

He speaks lowly, eyes mischievous. It makes her beam with pride.

She squeezes shoulder. “You think so?”

“I know—as I know you are being coy. Or—oh.” He closes his eyes, blushes as she squeezes his hip and rear.

“Not anymore,” she says, and she grows bolder still.

“Kiss me again.”

She obeys and she gives. They are side by side and because he cannot touch her gently with his right hand, he makes it up with his left. He caresses her cheek and her shoulder, rubs her back and presses her body into his. They move both like it’s their last night on earth and like they have eternity together. He shifts, and she can feel his hardness pressed against her.

“Jaime…” she mutters when she feels him. “Jaime.”

“We don’t have to,,,” he says between kisses when he knows she has become aware. “I don’t want you to think we do.”

“You still want me?”

He removes himself and gives her a look. You ask this now Brienne? His angled brows wonder without words. Indeed, the evidence is there quite plainly, and yet she has been conditioned to believe overwhelming yeses are acts and cruel japes. Is it always going to be something that creeps on her, even when she knows what his eyes say?

“I promise,” he begins, hearing her unvoiced concern, “what happened wasn’t what I had planned, but—”

“What did you have planned?” she asks, curious.

“Oh, make love to you for one. In the more traditional sense. Not be drunk. But I’ll have you know,” he sees fit to add, “I was not nearly as drunk as you may have believed.”

“You wanted to sweep me off my feet.”

He nods, and she asks why he didn’t follow her as soon as she left. He doesn’t answer at first, only leads her to fall on her back so he may fall gently atop her and cover her with his body. Limbs caress, looks are shared. It’s almost like a kitten and not a lion the way he nuzzles her forehead and lets their skins touch. He wants to be touched gently, he wants to be loved and not taken/ Though she caresses his hips, she feels no semblance of restraint or that he’s holding himself back from doing more. She feels he would have her if she parted her thighs and said yes Jaime take me, but what he craves and what he’s starved for is gentle words and gentle touches. Slow.

_He came to me drunk because he was afraid it wasn’t the same for me.He drunk for courage. Jaime makes loves only when he loves._

She laughs, both at her realization and at his beard, tickling her shoulders and the scars from the bear. All because I didn’t drink, all because his brother offended me when he called me a virgin, as if it’s some shame you have to get rid of. He worried it wasn’t the same for me. We are the same.

“I’m like you, you know,” she says, and he peers at her. She could tell him I’m like you because you love yourself and I happen to love you too, or be more sincere and not make gibes. I only make love when I’m in love, like you. She could tell the truth.

“Affections are important to me too,” she settles. “They mean something.”

“It wasn’t my wish to hastily consummate,” he whispers softly, petting her hair. “But Pod told me you were waiting, and—”

Her eyes widen. “Pod told you?”

“He did.” He kisses her nose, like she kissed his earlier. “So I came to you.”

“And you were jealous.”

“Yes,” he admits, only a touch ashamed.

“Don’t be. There are no other men like you, only you.”

He’s wonderstruck. “Bri…”

They kiss and they touch and her thighs do not part, nor does he ask for them to part. They simply are. And when he settles to his side of the bed and she does hers, covering in fur while he elects to sleep with no blankets, finally finding the room temperature apt and not too hot without any clothes, he finally asks if she regrets they did not take that extra step.

“No,” she promises. “We will. Probably soon too.” And…what’s so wrong with taking it slow?

“When you want,” he says. “Only when you want.”

She eyes that golden hand. She tells him he’ll know when she does. She will make it loud and unabashedly clear.


	12. Apple Tarts

When comes the morning, Jaime has a plan he hopes to enact. First, he’s going to get out of bed and dress. Not because of want— only more so because it’s indecent not to get dressed. If he were to do what pleases him and spend the whole day with Brienne in her room, he certainly wouldn’t reach below and pull on his breeches. However, he has something he wants to ask, and to ask his something, he has a plan.

And in the plan, to creep into the kitchen and swipe a basket of apple tarts for Brienne and possibly some bread and cheese for himself, breeches are required.

After that, the grand plan commences to creep back into her room and slide back into bed with her, leaving the basket on her nightstand for her to see when she wakes up. If he’s lucky, more kissing will follow once she’s awake. They’ll eat, she’ll be pleased he remembered and thought of her, then kiss some more. Maybe she’ll let him give her his mouth again. Maybe she’ll show him how she pleasures herself. Either way, the plan’s grand finale includes Jaime sweet talking Brienne into allowing this whole matter him sharing her bed can continue in a more enduring fashion. If his ardent kisses or sweet words aren’t enough, perhaps the apple tarts will be.

Before he rises to enact his plan, he wonders, should I kiss her? She’s curled to her side of the bed, the right, while he’s sprawled on the left. He kicked off the fur blankets in sleep while she has bundled up in a cocoon of sorts. The fire has died down considerably since the night fell, yet it still burns brightly and envelopes them in a warm and thick heat. He despises all fire in some way, except for Brienne’s, but if that’s how she likes the room, so be it. He’d rather be hot with her in her bed at home than make roots elsewhere and crave her during the night.

Begrudgingly however, he goes over to the fire and puts more wood on. A wise woman once said you put more wood on every time you leave the room, so that’s what he does. He stokes it for good measure, makes sure the wood catches and it burns brightly. He hears rustling, he hopes she’s just shifting in sleep, yet when he hears a groggy question of Jaime, what are you doing? he turns and catches her eyes.

“Brienne!” He scolds. “You ruined my plan!”

Her eyes briefly sweep over his form before her gaze flits away, the corner of the room suddenly endlessly fascinating. He knows why immediately, yet she states the obvious, “you’re naked,” for good measure.

He leans against the fireplace. He smirks. “So are you.”

“You’re still naked!” she changes.

He’s no lecher, but he does eye her naked breasts and smirk at them. “So are you,” he says.

“Jaime!”

As he laughs she scrambles to cover them, but stops when softly, he asks her what’s the great need is. He’s been naked with her twice now and he likes it when she looks at him with wide and appreciating eyes, and he gets the feeling she likes it when he looks it her. Besides, even before they were lovers she had no problem being naked in front of him.

She peeks at him. “Lovers?” .

She says it so softly, endearingly. Ah, he has said it and there’s no taking it back, but he has no regrets. “What else should I call you?” he asks, feeling gentle, feeling young and new. “I don’t know what else to call the woman who takes off my clothes. By the way—”

He inches closer. “You do…like me…don’t you?”

Her brows furrow. “Jaime. We did that.”

She misinterpreted, but that’s his fault. He swallows, he only wanted to ask once. “I mean…”

When he finds showing is better than telling, he motions to himself, naked as the day he was born. Brienne blinks, still the goddess of the firelit and furs, even in morning. Perhaps especially in morning.

“You…want to know if I’m attracted to you?” she asks, understanding. “You want to know if I like the way you look?”

There he stands, naked and with his cock pointing right at her, though that wasn’t his intention. “…yes,” he mutters, himself now the one who finds the corner of the room endlessly fascinating.

“Come here.”

He obeys. She beckons him closer. He comes closer.

“Closer,” she says. He finally comes the “close” that’s to her liking, a close that’s at the side of her bed.

A long finger asks him to lean down. She rises as well, rises to meet his lips.

“Yes,” she says.

He smiles, and then he laughs. As he laughs to himself, happy and merry, he peppers her face with more light and airy kisses. She’s distracting him and he’ll fall if he lets himself, but remembering the plan, he finds a way to unglue himself from her side to pick up his discarded clothes from the previous night. Her clothes and his make a patchwork on the floor, roughly retelling the story of what happened during the night. A good story, he thinks. He’d retell it if he could, though he knows he shouldn’t.

When he sits down on his side, he notices Brienne has pulled the furs down. While she’s half naked and no longer has problems with it, it seems counterintuitive for him to put his clothes back on. It’s even something minx-like Brienne mentions, but he rises and does his one handed jumping dance as he’s had to do since he lost his hand anyway. “I have a plan,” he promises, getting his tunic. He fumbles with his shirt more than his breeches, perhaps knowing Brienne is watching. He feels her reach across the bed, get his shirt over his head before turning him around to fix the sleeves. She eyes the golden hand, but otherwise says nothing about it. They look at each other. They’ve been looking at each other since he’s arrived at Winterfell, since before, but she asks questions without words when she looks at that Lannister gold and he wonders if he can answer.

“Jaime,” she says, “I don’t want you to think that—"

“Hush sweetling,” he bids. “Go back to sleep.”

“Why?”

“So when I come back, I can wake you with a kiss.”

“But where are you going?”

“Not far. You’ll see”

Her hand kneads against his back for a bit after he sits and begins to stuff on his boots. As he fumbles, he looks at his useless, heavy and gaudy golden hand. He usually takes it off every night before bed. Was it remembrances of Cersei not able to look at what he’s lost that stopped him last night? The difference was he could handle it from his sister. She can be cruel and hateful.

Brienne isn’t. Brienne wouldn’t.

Maybe he keeps it on to remind her that he’s still Jaime, he’s still Kingslayer. She can tell all of Winterfell, including Daenerys Targaryen, why he did what he did, but Kingslayer is still his title and his mask. He’s still a Lannister and Tywin’s son and Cersei’s brother. Maybe it will touch her once in a fervent session, maybe he’ll accidently bump her with it when he meant to touch softly, and it will knock her in the head and remind her who he is and what he once did. For Jaime, making love with Brienne dissolves him of all until there’s only woman, only man. He’s mostly soft, mostly Jaime with her. Save one thing.  
If he takes it off, he’d manipulate Brienne. He’d try to tell her he’s something he’s not.

_Or maybe you’d be fully unmasked._

_Or maybe you’re thinking about it too much._

Either way, he can’t walk around Winterfell without it. He kisses Brienne on the forehead before departing, telling her he knows she’s not sleeping as her nose scrunches up at his prickly beard.

“Oh,” he mutters, touching it, “Scruffy isn’t it? Maybe I should shave if you would prefer to—”

“No,” she states suddenly, eyes fluttering open. “Don’t you dare.”

He blinks in dull surprise. Such a definite answer. Well, as his lady commands. He laughs, swiping her fur cloak from the headboard and creeping out the door and closing it softly before throwing it over his shoulders, planning on finding the great hall and knowing the kitchens will be near there. Brienne’s cloak fits him well, and it’s better than his own because it smells like her—snow and fire and an herb that’s likely found in the soap she uses. There’s also another smell, one he no knows no name for other than Brienne. Steely maybe, but it’s also sweeter. It’s intoxicating. She carries a touch of a summer smell along with Winter. She stands with him and some of her summer falls on his shoulders. People are going to know. He’s too happy it’s indecent.

He’s thinking of just that, that people are going to notice when he hears a gruff and annoyed “stop smiling!” The air is chilly and stiff in Winterfell’s courtyard, but Sandor Clegane’s demeanor is stiffer than all.

“We all know you fucked Brienne of fucking Tarth,” he says, leaning against the stone wall outside near the grand hall. “Stop gloating.”

The Hound is tall and looming like one of Winterfell’s columns. Perhaps that’s why Jaime didn’t notice him at first as he roamed onward to his destination, but he certainly sees him now. Very few people are out and about—likely still passed out from battle, but the Hound of all people is awake.

He thinks of a thousand quips and japes to say to the bold declaration, and then it’s only shit, shit and shit.

“I did…no such thing,” Jaime lies. “I wouldn’t dare besmirch her honor, or—”

“Besmirch her honor,” he spits, arms crossed. “She probably threw you down on the bed and besmirched your little honor. Wonder what your sister would think.”

“That is none of her concern,” he says through gritted teeth.

He raises his eyebrows. “Gianstbane cried all night and thinks you took her away.”

Brienne’s no woman to be taken, she goes where she pleases and only makes love when her affections are high, like Jaime. Of course he can’t tell Clegane that—doing so would imply he slept with his lady and knight. And yes, she is his lady and he wants Winterfell to know, but—

“Wait,” he says aloud, realization dawning. “I don’t have to hide it.”

“Weren’t being subtle earlier,” Clegane huffs as Jaime heads to the hall and to the kitchens. “hope you enjoyed yourself last night while everyone else is just glad they didn’t die,” he goes on. “So glad we beat the dead just for you to fuck…”

He cares not what he says or what he thinks, though people know. That’s exciting. What’s more is that he doesn’t have to hide it. He can tell everyone in Winterfell he spent the night with Brienne and he doesn’t have to kept it a secret. He made love to her. Yes, perhaps still a maiden in some respects, but they were naked and they laid together and he kissed her and he slow danced with her in another way. Soon they’ll dance for real in front of everyone. They’re lovers and he’s glad Winterfell knows. He doesn’t have to worry, he can keep her safe and everyone will know he’s hers. So long being in hiding, all for a sham of a relationship and now he’s attached himself to the hip of the summery and warm Brienne of Tarth.

He momentarily forgets his plan as he arrives back to her room, and how he was going to kiss, sweet talk, and bribe her with food so he can stay with her in her room. He sets the basket on the bedside table and deluges her face in scratchy kisses, kicking off his boots in the process and ready to settle in for a no clothes required picnic atop her bed. She’s naked underneath the furs, and he sinks atop her.

“Jaime, did you bring apple tarts?” she asks as he kisses and she kisses back, briefly glancing at the bedside table. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“You’re sweeter. And you taste better.”

She comes alight. “Jaime.”

“Oh Brienne,” he nearly sings, “let’s stay here for a while, then let’s go outside and kiss some more…and don’t let go of my hand either…hmmm, Bri. Sweetling. Take me with you everywhere, would you? I want everyone to know I’m here to stay. Hm. Didn’t you beat the Hound in single combat? Guess he wasn’t strong enough. I’m strong enough for you. I think all should know. Hmm. You kiss good.”  
She pulls his ardent mouth away from hers, perhaps a bit reluctantly. “What brought this on?” she asks, holding his face in her hands, allowing their eyes to meet. She peers at him with quizzical amusement.  
He kisses her neck. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” he assures. “Don’t you want to be kissed everywhere, and by someone who knows how?”

She bits her red and swollen lips. “Only you.”

Only him, she says. She’s lived all her years, and only him.

“Ah. Good,” he says, suddenly bashful, cheeks suddenly hot. “That works out. There’s only one I want to kiss.” Knight of the seven kingdoms, Brienne of Tarth, Bri.

“And,” she begins, nails lightly scratching the back of his neck, “let everyone know in the process.”

“But of course, my lady.”

She snorts. “Jaime…what am I going to do with you?”

“I’m happy,” he tells her though she only teases. “I’m happy,” Jaime says, exasperated and pressing their foreheads together, noses bumping together in the process. “I’m happy, and I don’t have to hide it. It doesn’t have to be a secret. Let’s not make it a secret.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” he says, elated. Elated as well, he says, breathless, “it’s you.”

“I am me, yes,” she mutters, not cruelly, but as if in a dream.

“I’m with you,” he clarifies. “and…I have a question.”

Reluctantly he tears himself away from her. But he has another question, and a dilemma that must be taken care of. He scooches off of her and plops his feet to the floor, grabbing the basket.

“Apple tarts?” he offers. “I know you like them, you ate several last night.”

“There’s something I like more.”

She takes the basket from his hands, and he’s nothing else save obsequious to Brienne’s something or other, an inner minx and queen that pushes off all the fur blankets and keeps him punned flat on the bed.

Her bare legs are on either side of him, his feet still flat against the floor, and she’s naked, straddling him and he’s biting his lip and grasping her hips, her heat pressed against his clothed hardness. The kisses stirred him, now he’s fully attuned to his body’s heady craving for pleasure with Brienne. Nice it would be, bliss and paradise. But makes a decision to surrenders to her wishes and her whims, watching her raptly to see what her plans are. For a moment she seems afraid to sink lower, press her full weight against him in some notion that she’ll snap him in two, but he subtly bucks his hips upward, the friction not enough to anything other than further arouse and not satisfy. It’s alright. He was trying to let her know he’s strong. He’s strong and he can handle it. He was made to be handled by her. And if something happens and her adoration breaks him, and he crushes under her weight, then what a grand death it would be. The best death.

Yet she glides across his clothed and hard cock, gasping at the feel of it against her folds. She’s damp with arousal and he moans, throwing his head back against the furs. She’s both gentle and makes it known that she’s atop him. He makes it known he can handle more. She gives. She presses and moves, and he circles her sensitive bundle of nerves with a gentle knuckle, then a firmer pad of his finger. He rubs, she presses, glides and yanks open the drawstrings of his tunic to touch bare skin. She rips the fabric. He feels so good like this, so alive. Being inside her would surely be a death…the best death…  
But then he does die underneath Brienne, or it feels as though he has, and she dies above him. They have died together simultaneously, and he looks at her flushed and rosy face, grinning wickedly at him, and it’s further proof this is the only place in Winterfell he’d ever be able to sleep.

“Jaime,” she says, hands on her hips, grin still wide, “apple tart?”

The no clothes required picnic he earlier envisioned does commence, though Jaime takes care of himself first and Brienne does throw on a tunic, making the “no clothes” part only somewhat true. It is however, his ripped shirt she wears. He’s pleased to see it fits her better than it fits him.

“This was your plan then?” Brienne asks, on her second tart. “You were going to bring me food?”

“That works right? Course, you disrupted it. You just had to wake up. You just had to climb on top of me.”

“You like it like that.”

She states, doesn’t ask. He nods. She’s the only one in the whole bloody world that can catch him, he swears.

“I did however,” Jaime begins, rising, “have something I wanted to ask you.”

“You were going to bribe me with sweets, weren’t you? That was part of your plan.”

“…maybe.”

Either way, she smirks, and folds her hands in her lap, listening intently. “Well,” he says, leaning closer to her, “I am, as you know, alive after all that with the battle.”

She sweeps over his body. “I noticed.”

“And I suppose Winterfell did grow on me a little.”

She continues to listen. He goes on. “I’m not too keen on how warm you keep the room, but I must say…your bed is far more comfortable than any I’ve been in. And you’re in your bed.”

“Jaime. The dragon queen—”

“Ah, you’re my only queen. This room is my palace.”

He still jests (though he believes what he said.) even if Brienne has attempted to turn the conversation to serious matters. But he doesn’t want to talk about that now. Certainly not now.

“You know that—"

“Her plans are no concern of mine,” he flat tells her. “I stabbed her father in the back. Never mind what he did, but she’s never going to like me. She may tolerate me at best, but I’m not going to hope for more or even try to get more. I just…I only…”

He trails off as he remembers her dragon and the fire that blazed through the Lannister army not so long ago. She’d do it again. He knows. She wants the throne that bad. Maybe it is her right and she deserves it. And yet he sighs. War and fire can only lead to a path of ashes, death, and loneliness. He’s never understood it, how so many people claw at power needlessly. And for what?  
It’s not worth it. He raises his hand to protect. That’s all. And maybe, maybe it is the same for the dragon queen. Maybe she wants to protect and thinks she can do a better job than his sister.

His sister, using wildfire at the Sept. His sister, lying to him. His sister…his sister…

“Jaime.”

Her hand is on his cheek. Warm Brienne, summery Brienne. If he was on fire she pours water on his head and renews. Who is he fooling? He cares about what’s next. Of course he bloody cares. That’s his problem, he cares too much even though he certainly doesn’t think it’s too much. He just wants to see people alive and living well. Some people fear darkness. He fears fire and ashes. He never feared death but he fears unlived life.

Well. There he is, alive and living well. He’s with Brienne and he lives the best with her.

“I like it right here,” he tells her. In fact, it’s his favorite. He can simply be. He can live and not have to hid. He wants to stay with her.

“This room is mine,” she says, “so…”

“…yes?”

She kisses his cheek. “It’s also yours. Stay here, stay here with me.”

“Well.” He takes her hand and kisses it. “If you insist.”

The apple tarts really are quite tasty.


	13. Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the longer delay than usual, but thank you for reading!

When they finish the apple tarts, and it’s well past time before Brienne admits she must ready herself for the day when Jaime admits and apologizes for his idiosyncrasies. He takes her hand, (that’s why he wanted the left side of her bed, so he could hold her hand.) takes a deep breath for the sake of severity, and acts serious as he speaks, though he’s tenderer in the way he strokes her hand and long fingers. Though Jaime is always tender, she reminds herself.

As he drinks in her mussed hair and sleepy eyes, he explains he can flit from one extreme to the other. This she already knows, though she doesn’t interject. Drink elevates it he further he admits, though that too she already knew as well and doesn’t interject. Yet there is one more thing he confesses. It is also another thing Brienne thought of earlier, albeit briefly, but when he admits he keeps thinking he’ll have to keep the two of them a secret and there’s nothing but clarity that almost knocks him over with it’s brilliance when he realizes he doesn’t, Brienne softens. It makes him happy, he says, that he doesn’t have to keep them a secret. He can shout it from the rooftops, though it can be frightening and overwhelming. He doesn’t admit that part, but he doesn’t have to. His eyes waver away and that’s all the answer she needs. Yet they come back, and he smiles and it’s as if he’s no longer afraid. It’s like before, when they were in battle, fighting side by side. It’s going to be hard, like the battle, because nothing is easy. They’ll win again though, they will.

“What’s good about us,” Jaime says, proud, and resting his cheek on her shoulder, “is that everyone already knows anyway.”

“Everybody?” Brienne asks, voice slightly squeaking. “Everybody” covers some people she’s not sure of.

“Oh yes.” Jaime replies, quite content. “Did I tell you Sandor Clegane knows about us? He’s very happy about it.”

She doubts it’s the case for many reasons, one being that she’s sure few things make the Hound happy, with the other, more wounding reason likely being the fact that she defeated him in single combat. She reminds Jaime of it, and he grins and chuckles and commends her prowess. “Of course you defeated him sweetling,” he says, playing with a strand of her mussed hair. “You’re indestructible.”

She touches the juncture of her hip absentmindedly, retracing a path Jaime’s hand took earlier. She sees it then—a flash of Jaime not wanting to touch her anymore. It’s brief. It’s still unmistakably there.

Not now though, certainly not now when he rests himself on her, acts as though he may die if they’re not touching. Far from it. “You can’t say that for sure,” she insists.

“What makes you say that, I wonder?”

“Nothing,” she replies. “It’s only…we’re all only human.”

His lips are light against his forehead. “I know what’s you.”

He doesn’t know, he only believes. Her breath catches as he calls her “Bri,” sighing and positioning himself on top of her, careful not to touch her with the golden hand. Damnable thing. Stubborn man that won’t take it off—though that’s his choice and only his. “Just think Ser,” he says, clearly enjoying the brief feeling of feeling taller in bed with her, “You’re indestructible. And everyone knows it. You’re contagious too.”

“You’re contagious,” she counters, “And you’re going to let everyone in Winterfell know about us.”

“What’s wrong if they do know?” he wonders, wrapping his arm around her.

He has such earnest eyes, such adoration. “Nothing, I suppose,” she’s compelled to say.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

He braces himself for a “yes,” but she isn’t sure what to say, as they tread in a territory she never thought she would find herself in. Her earlier displays with him were bold and unprecedented for her, but they felt right and so she did without qualms or thought. Yet to live openly as a unit and as a couple, to share the same bed and wear the title of lovers comes with reactions and thoughts and contrasting opinions. Some are going to mock her, she knows. He’s Ser Jaime Lannister. Some are going to mock him, he’s Ser Jaime Lannister. And Ser Jaime is with her, Ser Brienne of Tarth. And Ser Brienne is a beast of a woman, and—

The woman he wants to be with. The woman who was his captor and who he saved and who he now sleeps with, and what he plants and cultivates with her isn’t forbidden like before. It’s not manipulative like before either, or a poison. It couldn’t be. She’s not like that woman in the ways that matter, and neither is Jaime. Brienne is going to let him be who he is. And if he wants to tell everyone… because he can…

“I don’t mind,” she decides. “Not if it makes you happy. I don’t mind at all.”

“You want me happy?”

He’s elated, even as he asks and already knows. And yet she asks, “that’s what lovers want for each other, isn’t it?” and he has a sharp intake of breath with light in his eyes. She feels what’s been deprived of him before, even without him saying. He’s so unlike her—he’s like a boy and then he’s so much a man and knight when he’s with her and kissing her. He’s good.

“Smile Ser Brienne,” he says. “That’s what I want. You’re radiant when you smile. You know that right? Fuck anyone who ever said otherwise.”

“That was you at one point, you know,” she points out, smirking at the memory.

“I did not,” he insists, feigning a wound.

“When Catelyn Stark brought me to you,” she reminds, “and your hair and beard was stringy, covered in mud and chained to a poll, and you looked at me and asked Lady Catelyn if I was a woman.”

“I didn’t say you were unattractive,” he points out, “I only had a wonder.”

Her eyes narrow. “Later as we were traveling, you said I was as ‘boring as I was ugly.’ Remember that?”

He blinks, recollecting. “Well,” he says, “Fuck me then.”

Her nails scratch down his back while a leg hooks over him. He bites his lip as she presses her heel into him. She gives promises and promises, oaths and oaths, only giving because she knows she will fulfill them. She only wants his happiness, after all.

“If that’s what you wish,” she whispers.

Into a kiss, he breathes his “yes.” Yes, he says, as if she doesn’t already know. They’re together, kissing and holding. They’re sharing a bed. It’s new, and every moment together, Jaime unmasks while Brienne unlocks. They live together, and even if they live separately, they’ll still unmask and still unlock. It’s a cruel thought to live separately as he kisses her, but she knows it to be true now. It’s the great tragedy of their late morning—that she must get out of bed for the day.

But, she slyly realizes, _I’ll get to come back later._

Jaime is none the wiser to her thoughts as he pays rapt attention to her shoulders and collarbones. She hopes inching one leg off the bed will allow a hint. It does, as he peers at her just as a bare foot hits the cold stone floor. Jaime grunts in disapproval, asks where in the seven hells does she think she’s going.

“I need to speak with Sansa,” Brienne replies, “She may be holding council. I have to be there.”

“Don’t go.”

He’s mostly jesting, but there’s a layer of his true want in his words. “I have to go,” she says. “It’s not for forever.”

He sighs. “I know, I know.”

She manages to get herself off the bed and dress in her usual tunic and breeches. Jaime watches—she can feel her eyes on him as she artlessly and hastily pulls a tunic over her head and throws her fur cloak over her shoulders. She turns to him finally, grabbing Oathkeeper and strapping it to her hip. She wears it though she sees no reason why she would have to use it today for ceremonial purposes, for status, and because it reminds her of him. It always has.

“I’ll see you,” she whispers.

She loves his dreamy eyes. “Come back.”

“This is my room,” she says. “Of course I’ll be back.”

He smiles with lazy promises. “So will I.”

He waves goodbye with that same smile. She waves back before the door closes with a dull click. The noise has such a mundane finality about it, as if the long chapter she’s closed of her own self lounging in bed with Jaime Lannister isn’t one of the most important chapters she’s ever had, or one of her favorites with only the more exciting bits to come. It is the beginning though, she reminds herself. Their beginning. They established themselves and now they must cultivate the seeds, let themselves grow. And I have no inkling how, she thinks, her palm still pressed on the door where he rests behind, other than to simply live and live with him. No one tells you how to grow with another person.

Brienne thinks more so of that than anything else when she meets with Sansa in the library, Sansa’s gloved hands going over Winterfell’s stocks. Brienne nods as she surmises they should make do with what food storages they have, especially if the dragon queen plans to march away to her next task with her army in the near future. And they are still accounting for the fallen, and how many Northern men will ride with the queen South, to King’s Landing. It’s the mentioning of King’s Landing and who exactly resides in the Red Keep that makes Brienne pause, and even Sansa wavers before she says _her_ name, as she knows is the connection between her, Jaime, and Brienne. Will this be how it is for the foreseeable future? It makes Brienne wonder. It makes her wonder if her name will be a curse, the subject territory not to be tread.

“I saw you leave the feast last night.” Sansa recalls, moving away from the un-tread territory, and smirking into what she deems far more exciting. “He came to you, didn’t he?”

“Not immediately,” Brienne replies, feeling her heart race and her cheeks turn hot. She’s not embarrassed, she understands as her heart settles. She’s proud.

“But he did come?”

“It took more drink, but yes. He came.” she says, and how enthusiastically she says it, how good it feels to say it outside her room and domain. It’s only theirs in their room, but she talks about it to Sansa, her friend, and she understands that perhaps there is something to Jaime’s joy at announcing it around Winterfell. It is contagious as she’s contagious.

“He’s staying?”

“He wants to stay with me,” Brienne says, and it’s the most wonderful thing of all, the thing she’s the proudest of.

“And…it is what you want too?”

“Yes,” Brienne promises, to Sansa, herself, and Jaime, far off, as if he can hear her. He’s always heard her the best of all.

Sansa’s brow quirks upward. “So does he know that?”

“Well, if he doesn’t, he should,” Brienne replies. “I think I mentioned it on numerous occasions that yes, I want him to stay. But Jaime likes to hear it again and again. I swear I could spend all day assuring him I want him here, and yet—”

She stops, mid thought, while Sansa, bless her, is still raptly interested, as another thought intrudes. It’s one that’s more puzzling, considering the situation. “Sansa, why are you asking?” Brienne asks. “Shouldn’t we be talking about the upcoming battle? Is your brother going to ride South? When is the dragon queen going to ride south? We should discuss what—”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that,” Sansa interjects, waving her hand. “We finally have a moment of quiet after all that. We’re alive. I’m sure Jon will tell me what he plans to do later, but for now, I just want…”

She wavers, shaking her head and stopping in mid thought as Brienne did not long before. “What?” Brienne wonders.

“It’s silly,” Sansa decides, closing the book of records, reaching for a map of the North.

“I’m sure it’s not.”

She sighs. “I don’t know,” she says. “I saw him look at you when he was on trial. You stood up and you defended him, and then he looked not happy…but relieved and then…” She searches for the right word.  
“Happy, I suppose,” she finally settles. “And. I don’t know. I suppose I started to believe again when I saw that and you two.”

“In what?”

Sansa smiles. “What do you think? In the stories I used to read. Florian the Fool and the maiden Jonquil, romances like that.”

“I don’t think we’re a romance,” Brienne says. “I’m certainly no Jonquil. And Jaime may be a fool, but—”

“You’re something better,” Sansa insists. “You’re the two of you. And it made me believe in it again.”

“In what?” Brienne asks again.

Sansa chuckles and exclaims, “in love!” still laughing as Brienne turns red. Before she can think more of it, she’s taking her hand, saying, “I don’t want to talk about stocks and soldiers and marching South. I want to talk about something happy. And you two, you’re happy, and together, and…it makes me happy.”

Her smile is bashful. “I’m glad,” she replies.”

Sansa leans in. “So. Tell me. Is he…?”

“He’s considerate,” Brienne says, and she leaves it at that. Sansa’s brows wiggle, putting the books away. “You know,” she begins, changing the subject, “but my sister Arya and the new Gendry Baratheon are together.”

“Sansa,” she exclaims, “I can’t talk about your sister behind her back!”

“Oh, come on,” Sansa chides, “we’re not talking about it, I am only saying that I think she quite enjoys Gendry’s company, and even though she’s turned down his proposal for marriage, I think they—”

“Marriage? Sansa, I don’t think I should talk about this…”

“Alright, alright.” She backs down. “We can talk about the Kingslayer then. You do look very happy Brienne. He must be very—”

“ _Lady Sansa_!”

She laughs, and though Brienne doesn’t say anything more, that big, knowing grin says everything that needs to be said.

Brienne finds Podrick outside a little later, training with a few others outside the fortress. A light snow has fallen and continues to fall, catching in Pod’s dark hair. “Really?” she asks in regards to his vigilance, amused but proud, and gripping Oathkeeper at her hip. She almost as an idea to join.

He straightens from his form as she approaches. “A brave knight once told me that training never stops.”

She stands a little taller. “The brave knight must be very wise indeed.”

Pod smirks. “She seems happy too.”

She returns the smirk. “Oh. Does she?”

He comes nearer. He looks around before his voice lowers. “Are you happy my lady?” he asks, and it hits her: she’s not entirely sure anyone has asked her that before. One doesn’t typically know they are happy or consciously thinking about it when they are—Brienne recalls dancing with Renly and only later realizing and knowing it to be her happiest moment alive, until Jaime asked her to kneel and knighted her, and until he came to her and kissed her. She stands in between now, wanting to know everything that will happen to them and wanting to take it slow and savor it. That’s happiness and that’s everything. She nods.

Pod points behind her. Brienne turns. Jaime leans against the castle wall, arms crossed. He’s waiting for her. She drifts over to him, telling Pod she’ll catch him later, as she feels that pull that she’s felt with only one, Jaime Lannister. When they are face to face, a breath away, he strokes lightly at the fur of her cloak. “You stole it from me,” he says before Brienne snorts, because he stole it from her first.

“I did no such things,” she replies. “You know perfectly well that—"

Before she can finish he takes her hand, kissing it and quieting her. “No gloves?” he asks, warming it with his fingers as best he can with one hand. She shakes her head, as she forgot that morning. It wasn’t part of a larger plot she had in mind for Jaime to kiss her bare skin, but she’s glad of it either way. She likes them better when they’re skin to skin, in so many different ways.

“Bri,” Jaime whispers, “there’s something I want to show you. Follow me.”

With no small measure of curiosity, she follows him behind the fortress. No one is around—it feels like it’s just the two of them, like it always does when they are together. And it is only the two of them, even if it’s only in this small way. Before she can ask what it is he so desperately wanted to show her, as there’s ample castle wall here compared to where they were, Jaime pulls her into his arms, lifts his feet just slightly off the ground (she knows he did because before she can feel his bearded lips eagerly devour her mouth and closes her eyes, she sees him just slightly inch over her forehead, which is certainly where he doesn’t usually stand.) and kisses her. She answers back by deepening the kiss. They kiss like they spar, give and take, give and take, they kiss like they need it to breathe, and when she gasps when they’re sinking to the ground, onto the cold blanket of snow that envelopes her body, Jaime hoists himself on top of her and doesn’t stop kissing her. Nor does she want him to. She never wants him too.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, stroking his hair. He laughs, low into the crook of her neck before she kisses him again.

“Interesting thing you wanted to show me,” she says.

“You always make it interesting.”

Her lips move to his ear. “I do, don’t I?”

The layer of snow is akin to a soft pillow underneath her head. Jaime’s beard and hair are scruffy and in disarray from where her hand ruffled through it. He studies her, eyes sweeping over her face. The sun outlines his form and makes his green eyes greener. His gloved, left hand caresses her cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“I’m happy,” she replies, before kissing him again. Unlike every other time she’s been happy before, this time she has the knowledge in the moment. _I am happy and drunk off of it._

So she kisses him harder. They both kiss harder.


	14. Showing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter is nsfw, again. Hehe <3

When dinner nearly finishes in the great hall and Jaime picks up a pitcher of that coveted Dornish wine he’s so fond of, he picks it up and refills his goblet. There’s a slight spring in his movements, a merry look in his eyes from only the two refills he’s had. He’ll certainly be a handful later when they’re alone, though he’s always a handful, always a surprise. How she loves him, how it’s not a surprise to admit it anymore like it once was.

She wishes she could tell him, as he’s been telling her since he’s come to her. Even without using words it’s loud and unabashedly clear. She wishes she could be the same.

“Oh,” he mutters to himself, thinking himself rude for not refilling Brienne’s goblet first. As he begins to, she places her palm over the rim. “No more tonight,” she tells him.

Setting the goblet down, he feigns a wound. “No more?” he asks, bemused, “but we’re alive. Quite alive.” He wiggles his eyebrows knowingly, with their little secret only they and everyone else in Winterfell knows. “Come sweetling,” he beckons her. “live a little, with me.”

Though charmed by the display, she keeps her palm against the goblet. “We can celebrate in another way, later,” she says.

“Oh.” He leans in to whisper in her ear. “Plan on living a little differently with me, do you?”

She grins. “If it pleases you.”

“Many things please me my lady.”

“You please me, Ser Jaime.”

With grand ceremony, he sets the goblet down, eyes twinkling with her promises and endearments. In the great hall they took dinner together, sat side by side as they ate as they do now, with shoulders touching, sides touching, thighs touching, and legs entwinned underneath the table. Her hand resting on the table, he spies it, and thinking it shouldn’t be left alone, delicately, he rests his hand over hers. It reminds her of another time, another place—with a mangier man who had transformed from the “Kingslayer” to “Ser Jaime,” in her mind. It was at Harrenhal, after his confession to her in the bathing pools, after he told the truth before falling in her arms in his typical dramatic fashion. They were dining with Roose Bolton, and fresh from their baths and wearing that orange garment Bolton’s men thought suitable for her, Jaime struggled with cutting his food. Brienne helped him, thinking his display of “failing at dinner” as he called it too depressing, and when she tried to help him again, a delicate hand over hers stopped the motion. Such a simple thing really, a hand over a hand. She used to think of it often. It was one of the things she carried with her, a memory that would often resurface when it was dark and she was alone, even before she realized why she would think of it, think of him. Jaime could have used words to tell her she didn’t have to help him, but he chose actions to speak in place of talk. Lovers speak silently, Brienne’s come to realize. Her and him, they spoke like lovers even before they knew of their fall.

Now, a lifetime later, Jaime keeps his hand over hers, and keeps it over even as his brother emerges from outside to sit across from the two of them. Now however, Jaime touches her for no other reason than he wants to be tender. Maybe she should be flaming with embarrassment that he’s being so showy with his affections in front of another—especially since the previous night Tyrion embarrassed her so, but his showiness has rubbed off on her. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she wants more.

Inspired, Brienne leans in and kisses his cheek. It’s small, it’s brief, but it makes him sigh contently and it makes Tyrion pause for a moment. Then, as Tyrion pours his own goblet of wine, he smirks. He toasts the two. Jaime toasts back. Begrudgingly, Brienne toasts as well.

“So,” Tyrion begins once that’s settled, peering closer across the table. “Last night…”

“No asking for details!” Jaime orders.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Tyrion insists, though Brienne senses otherwise from his tone. “I was going to apologize. I’m sorry if I offended you last night, Ser Brienne.”

She nods in acknowledgement. “I suppose that was your way of speeding things along?”

“I know my brother,” he insists. “He wouldn’t have done anything if not for me.”

“I would have done something,” Jaime says, indignant. “In fact, I’ve done many things to speed this along. I jumped into a pit with a bear, I armored you, I gave you a sword, I knighted you…”

“Why did you do that?” Brienne wonders, suddenly feeling like there’s only the two of them.

“I gave you the armor and the sword to—”

“No,” she interjects. “I know why you did those things. Why did you knight me?”

“Well, I wanted to,” he says plainly.

Tyrion, who had been drinking, sets his goblet down. “Was it because our dear friend Giantsbane said he would knight her ten times over and you thought you were the only one who should have that privilege?”

“No!” Jaime insists, too quickly before amending, “Well—I suppose…”

When he trials off, Brienne laughs, lightly whacking him on the arm. “Just admit it Jaime,” she says. “You were jealous.”

“Well, yes,” he admits, sheepish. “I told you before. Do we have to go over this again?”

“But why?” Brienne asks, genuinely still bemused at this whole situation. “He’s…well…lovely I’m sure,” she’s being generous, she knows, “but I don’t know him. I know you. You’re _you_ , you’re—"

“Bri,” he interrupts, words not drunkenly slurred, though he’s certainly not fully sober. “He knew immediately. I didn’t. When we first met, I called you boring. And ugly.”

“You said ‘you are as boring as you are ugly,’ don’t you remember?”

“He knew you were extraordinary from the first.”

Both Brienne and Tyrion stare at him. He’s looks so sorry for himself, and she very much believes that if he could go back, he’d change his initial words. Perhaps he would confide in her about the name “Kingslayer” from the first. Yet though he may want to change things and would, Brienne wouldn’t. What happened to them is theirs. It shouldn’t be taken away.

She wants to keep some things to only the two of them, but knowing that lovers speak without words, underneath the table, Brienne places a hand on his thigh. He must understand, he softens to her. Yet she also knows she’s quite capable of sweeping him off her feet.

“Jaime,” she whispers in his ear, “let’s get away for a while.”

She rises from the bench, pulling him up and taking his hand. He lets her take the lead, quickly saying goodbye to his brother before she whisks him out of the great hall. He follows willingly and enthusiastically, practically bouncing beside her, even as he keeps speaking of Tormund and how he knew immediately about her when he himself didn’t. It’s a pressing concern apparently, and remains so even as Brienne reminds him she didn’t hold him in high regard when she first met him as well.

“Did you really hate me?” Jaime asks, Brienne opening the door to her room. “Did you hate me like everyone else?”

She leans against the door, contemplating the Kingslayer, and Jaime. “No,” she decides, I wasn’t…fond of you, King Killer,” she decides, Jaime chuckling at the name. “I didn’t like what I was told about you. But…”

She opens the door and motions him in. It closes with a dull thud, signaling their privacy. “But,” she continues, “I’ve never quite been like everyone else.”

“No,” he agrees, and his eyes sweep down her body. “Not at all.”

They share knowing grins as she sets her cloak down and sets Oathkeeper against her armor, the very one that Jaime had commissioned for her. As he sits on her bed, she sits in the chair near the fire. She had so many plans of how the evening would unfold as she brazenly led him to her room, yet as they look at each other from across the way, looking at each other seems enough. Jaime doesn’t reach for her, and she doesn’t reach for him. They’re content to only gaze with longings and unsaid marks of love. This is life, she realizes. It’s filled with quiet moments in between landmarks. This is their quiet, and though she treasures the landmarks, it’s this and it’s Jaime placing his hand over hers, speaking without words. Lovers find extraordinary in the quiet.

A little later in the extraordinary quiet, Jaime rises after a moment, her gaze following him. She watches him as he sticks a piece of wood into the fire. “Won’t it be too hot for you?” she asks. “You kept complaining last night.”

He stokes it briefly before setting the poker down, turning back to her. “You like it warm.”

“I can compromise.”

He turns toward her, leaning against the mantle. “Nothing wrong with sleeping naked.”

“I...well…oh.”

They share a moment of laughter. For Brienne, she laughs when he does, though her laugh is much louder. If anything it makes Jaime laugh harder. He nearly topples over, though it takes her by surprise to see him kneel when her, smile still wide on his face as his palm spreads against her thigh.

“I could never hate you,” he says. “Even though you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” she insists. “But either way, you gave me reason not to. You gave me reason to—”

His eyes peek. “To…?”

“Well…” she begins, searching for the words. She had unconsciously spread her legs as he kneeled. He spreads them further. She moans as he doesn’t even touch her most sensitive parts—merely glide his palm against her inner thigh.

Jaime frowns. “I think you still dislike me,” he says, exaggerated, meant to gibe.

She gibes back. “Yes. I let you serve under my command, stayed by your side the entire battle, let you into my bed, and I still immensely dislike you.”

“Please don’t dislike me.”

He looks almost as though he could cry. So sad he looks, that even though she thinks they had only been teasing, some part of it must have struck a hidden nerve. I only want—”

She caresses his face. “No Jaime. I don’t dislike you.”

“You like me?”

“Quite a lot.”

“I…I don’t ever want you to hate me,” he says, grasping tightly onto her. “Please Brienne. Don’t ever curse me, or hate me. I only want—”

“Sweet words, gentle touches.”

He looks as though he could cry again, though this time, it’s not in sadness. He’s happy. “Always,” he whispers.

“I have sweet words,” she promises, wondering if this is how it will always be, if he’ll always need sweet words. She’s filled to the brim with them, only for him. Is this how her life is going to be, to constantly reassure?

 _I’ll give, I’ll give._ She doesn’t mind. It’s an honor.

“Sweet words,” he says. “Gentle touches.”

“Is that what you want?”

He nods. She gives gentle touches, holding his face in her hands and stooping to kiss him as his hand paws at her thigh, if only just. “I have many things for you,” she assures, parting for a moment.

“Show me.”

It’s almost a growl. “Show me,” he breathes again, softer this time.

She can feel the heat from the fire and from her burning cheeks. “Something you’d like to see?” she asks.

“ _Mhmm_. Pleasure yourself for me.”

He speaks it low, liltingly. If they were face to face and not preoccupied with kissing, she’s not sure he would have asked. Or if he did, he would not have met her eyes. She almost didn’t hear him at first, almost wasn’t sure that was what he asked even, but ah, she recalls the previous night. He had mentioned wanting to see how she takes care of herself, as they say. For Brienne, it was a thing done in secret before, a shame. She was always so embarrassed about it after a rushed and quick climax.

And now, she can only imagine it as a thing done before a glowing fire, before his eyes.

He takes it back—says the command was the rash, ridiculous want of a randy youth who’s too afraid to touch the object of his affection himself, but though they are not young, she feels a youngness of the two of them. With a kiss, she lets him know: she has every intention of doing this for him.

She’s not so experienced, but she knows what she likes. Gods, the first time she brought herself to orgasm she must have been a teenager. She chuckles when she recalls she thought she would die after it happened. There was a brief panic, a wonder if bodies could even feel like that. Could someone ever feel that good? She thought to herself. Her young self was ashamed. She was a broad, homely thing, or at least made to believe so. Like how fairytales and Florian and Jonquil were for the beautiful and dainty, that sort wasn’t meant for her. She didn’t think she deserved it. It’s why the times before had been so sparse. But it’s not true. It was never true. Her body is hers, and hers only. To give to who she wants, to learn to love. Maybe she’s still not in love with it, but she’s happy with herself and likes herself. And as for touching herself…

Well. Why not? If she wants it, she deserves it. She wishes she hadn’t been so ashamed before when she was young.

She remembers. _There was one time I wasn’t so ashamed._

She begins her performance, for her and for Ser Jaime’s eyes, fingers unlacing the string of her tunic. She unlaces her breast band as well, the fabric falling against her hips. She throws it off and away yet keeps the tunic on, stretching slightly. His eyes widen at that slight strip of bare skin from the hollow of her throat to her belly button. The pad of her finger draws a line against the skin. Jaime soon follows that straight line, seeking the smallest satisfaction from the briefest touch, even if he’s agreed to surrender a little tonight, let this be all her.

“I have something to tell you,” she begins, now unlacing her breeches, recalling that time when she wasn’t so ashamed to touch herself, like now. “Once…here in this room, I…”

He places his broad hand over hers, helping her shimmy out of her breeches and small clothes, holding onto her ankle however, caressing it with his thumb. She nudges it out his grasp, outlining his shoulder with the arch of her foot. Her long legs mesmerize him. She has an inkling to wrap him in them, keep him pinned to her that way as his hand digs into her sinews and mouth kiss every part of her thighs, but she has a plan and intends to carry it on. There she is, carrying it on, almost naked in his gaze while he’s fully clothed. It’s different from being vulnerable. There is vulnerability to it, but it’s also the delight at being so joyously devoured and loved, desired.

“Once in this room,” she continues, momentarily derailed because of his lusty and heavy eyes, “I sank into the bed, and I thought of you, while…well…”

She shows instead. She shows him how like that night after she saw him again at Riverrun, her fingers spread between her outer lips and past her coarse hair. Like that night, she applies a light pressure first, teasing herself, arousing herself further. She touches herself like she did that night, only then she didn’t know it was love, only a thought that he is a man I care for and I believe in. And he’s there now. They share a bed, and Jaime looks not at her hand, swirling around her sensitive bundle of nerves, but at her eyes. He was lost and he was found, by her, by her…

She closes her eyes as she presses harder. The fire crackles and the sound of her wetness is slick as she rubs. She spreads her legs further, feels the squeeze of his palm against her thigh. He wraps his other arm around her and pulls her in. His tongue is slow like her fingers are slow, but the kiss becomes more intense and deeper. She’s still kissing him, even at the peak of her pleasure. She still kisses him as she recovers.

“You were…supposed to watch,” she mutters, kissing him still. “That was the rule.”

He chuckles as he kisses her still. “We don’t follow rules my lady.”

Truly, they don’t. Certainly, she never has, both lady and knight. And while Jaime observes the ceremony in some things, honors what deserves honor, he makes his own rules elsewhere. The bedroom is where they make things up all on their own, and they’re both clever enough to think of a few things here and there. Still reeling from a dissolving climax, Jaime, still making his own rules. nearly rips her tunic off her shoulder, and presses kisses against the curve and against her exposed scars. She may have had up and down views of her body, but she’s never detested scars like others may have. They’re a part of her, not reminders of what was lost, but what was won. Jaime kisses scars and she’s never felt as though she’s won so much.

And by the way he holds onto her after, embraces her tightly and buries his head in the crook of her neck, she feels him bask in this time with her, where he’s truly won and still wins.

She doesn’t talk. She speaks a language of lovers, pulling him closer. Without words, she tells him that she’ll never let him lose.


	15. Oaths

The wind, though tinged with a chill, is gentle on his cheek, gentle like Brienne’s fingers. _It grows on you,_ she said once, a reference to the North. He supposes he’ll let the cold grow on him, so long as she’s there to keep him warm at night. Even if she does keep the room too warm, and he has to sleep naked and without any stifling fur blankets. Not that he’s ever minded that.

He smirks to himself, leaning against the castle wall. She doesn’t mind that so much either.

He’s been the house cat that resides in her room for both four days and four thousand years. Four thousand years because the two of them are already accustomed to a familiar routine, and he’d be willing to do it for four thousand more. During the day at Winterfell, things have been ever-changing with the Dragon Queen’s changing plans, but the night is blissful familiarity, and Brienne. He’s been sleeping naked. She prefers to bundle up. Sometimes if he gets up in the middle of the night, he’ll add another piece of wood, even if he thinks the room is warm enough. He likes to reach for her hand during the night. If she’s not in a deep sleep, she’ll grin but pretend she’s still asleep, the ruse always breaking when he gives her cheek a bearded kiss, making her laugh. They’re both prone to waking in early morning, but he always wakes first. He must. He doesn’t wish her to see him fasten the golden hand back on, nor does he wish her to see him take it off. It’s also why she’s always the first to fall asleep. Still, they make sweet good nights with a thousand kisses, and sweet good mornings with a thousand more. He likes to rub her, make the furs damp and her cheeks rosy against a dying fire. The soft whimpering noises she makes before a sharp cry that signals her climax are some of his favorite sounds, right along with her laugh. She likes to climb atop him and make him feel good. All this sex with their parts clothed, rubbing themselves to orgasm…it all reminds him of being young and filled with wonder. Brienne makes him feel young and filled with wonder again, and still the familiarity of their routine and her make him feel as old and grey as the end of his beard indicates. Both are welcome—it’s the beauty of such innocent romance found when he’s past the prime of youth. Stories often praise the love of youth, yet Jaime praises the older love, the love that brings back semblances of youth and newness. Love that began as embers before finally sparking in his second chance, before he could succumb to the mask and Cersei’s reflection.

That’s the love he sings the praises of, and the one he cherishes, like every name he gives her. Wench when he’s feeling playful, Ser Brienne or my lady when he feels reverent, sweetling when kissing, Bri when breathless. The names puzzle and delight her, and perhaps he gives her so many and makes sure to say them with love, because he knows what it’s like to live with a despised name. Yet there’s one he keeps to himself, one he thinks he should say. 

_Love._

It’s been four days and he’s molded his life to hers, cherished the night most of all. For himself he has no other plans, other than wait for night when he’s alone with Ser Brienne. (Which they’ve taken to calling her in the training yard, with both his, Tyrion, Davos Seaworth, Pod, and even Tormund Gianstbane’s insistence. One man, obviously not aware of Jaime’s living arrangements, even suggested he only knighted the great “bear of a woman” out of pity before battle before laughing, and Jaime smacked him hard across the face. “It’s the golden hand next, if you don’t show Ser Brienne the respect she deserves,” Jaime warned. Brienne said later he had been nothing but congenial since.) But if the Northmen expect him, Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and knight to do something “meaningful...” the truth is, this, living slowly, living to her, feels more meaningful than anything he’s done in a long time. She makes him breathe, take things in, not rush into matters. He’s calm, walking outside as she trains new recruits, a guest of the Lady of Winterfell. His mind is clear when it was once foggy. He waits for the night when he’s hers, and then he goes to their room and indulges in giving. She leaves every morning with a glow that he’s sure others have noticed, even if she remains a maid by all intents and purposes. He’s sure the day will come, and there will be more, (in fact, he knows,) but even though he can unleash a lion, he waits until she wills it. He wants to hear it from her.

As Jaime strolls, spying children make snowballs and romp about in the courtyard, Tyrion finds him, and stands near his side. “With the Targaryen girl?” Jaime idly asks, knowing that’s who his brother is always with.

His epithet for Danerys Targaryen doesn't sit well with his brother. “I was with the queen,” Tyrion corrects, inching closer to Jaime. “And. She’s your queen too.”

Jaime understands. Tyrion wants him to say it, proclaim it to her and anyone who would listen as Ned Starks’s bastard Jon Snow often does. Or so he’s heard. He supposes he’s going to have to prove fealty, denounce his sister publicly even though showing up to Winterfell and planting himself next to Brienne says everything already. He’s going to have to say it and say it soon: she’s the rightful heir. Cersei is not his queen, but the daughter of the Mad King is. He sees no reason why he should, or if she would even want his word when all things are considered, but if he’s trying to establish himself as a man of oaths, he may have to do more, show and tell.

“She fought for us,” Tyrion says. “Not for her, we may not have survived the Long Night.”

“I’m grateful she was there,” Jaime replies, as indeed, he’s grateful to be alive, grateful especially that Brienne is alive. “But…”

He lowers his voice, makes sure none other than the children nearby are around to hear. “If we all died,” he continues, “she’d have no Northmen to help her take the city.”

“Had she not helped us,” Tyrion begins, still vouching, still maintaining for reasons perhaps one day Jaime can understand, “she’d have most of her army. She’d have all three dragons alive.”

Jaime, eyes trailed ahead rather than at his brother, spots Samwell Tarly nearby. “She’d also have the pleasure of ruling over a continent of walking corpses.”

Tyrion frowns. “Jaime. You must—"

“I know, I know,” he says, dismissively waving his hand, just as Sam approaches one of the boys. Jaime remembers his fear during battle, remembers when he told him to continue fighting, which served both Sam and Jaime well in the heat of battle. Sam stoops down, picks up the boy he approached, the boy laughing merrily. He must be Sam’s son, part of his family that he spoke of during the fire of battle. He sees them together, happy. It’s curious to see them, watch idly, then long for something he can’t quite bring name too. He does however remember what his sister said, when she told him the truth, put his hand on her belly. _It would be different this time, she said_. He didn’t believe her.

“Is something wrong?” Tyrion asks in the silence of his remembrances. “You seem…”

“I’m fine,” Jaime lies, recalling Myrcella, recalling Tommen, Joffrey. His children he never fathered in the right way, never had a chance to be with.

“Jaime—"

“I know what must be done, what will be done,” he interjects, the Dragon Queen suddenly a more pleasant topic to discuss. Thinking of his children, thinking of her in her golden palace is far worse than any Targaryen.

His brother knows him better than almost everyone, except maybe Brienne. His eyes soften, finally regarding where Jaime’s eyes have been trailed during the entire conversation. “Do you remember when we were children? Tyrion asks, and Jaime nods, They speak of times spent in the snow, with Jaime throwing snowballs at him and sneaking behind Cersei to drop snowballs down her back. Jaime smirks If he did that harmless jape to his sister now, she’d probably threaten him. He thinks of it with Brienne instead, throwing snowballs at her and dropping them down her back. In retaliation she’d throw him to the ground and then kiss him, the only retaliation he’d want. You need two hands to make a proper snowball however, he realizes regrettably.

So Jaime watches Sam and the children, remembers and lives vicariously. Sam shows his son as well as the others how to make a proper snowball, gather snow in their hands and shifting it so it’s spherical. Jaime never got to show Myrcella how, or Tommen. Joffrey wouldn’t have wanted to even if Jaime had the inkling, he was always much more interested in swords, even if he never had the proper technique or cared to learn. Perhaps he would have, had his true father shown him how. Perhaps in another life they could have all been together, traveling to the North to make snowballs.

Tyrion asks if he’s alright again, and if he's sure, as he seems pensive. He brings himself to the present, again that day, and he knows how to make it more permanent this time. “Where’s Brienne?” Jaime asks. It should be time for dinner soon, and then bed after that. She might be training still, or she might be inside. Either way, he’d prefer to find her sooner than later, she has ways of making sure he thinks of no other things besides the two of them when they’re together.

He tells Tyrion he’ll see him at dinner, ready to exit through Winterfell until he happens to meet her halfway. “Jaime,” she greets warmly, a smile alighting her face. He falls into her arms and he’s grateful she opted out of her armor that morning. He chose well when he commissioned the blacksmith for Brienne, her armor protects well and has needed only slight mending through the time she’s had it, but the armor is no good for warm embracing. He holds her, face buried in the fur of her cloak, and people around would see the scene and think they’ve been apart for weeks. No, it’s been only hours, they’d know that if they kept up to date with the news of the North, but none know Jaime’s thoughts and how they spiral so, how he remembers what he doesn’t want to and Brienne makes things dissolve to only Brienne.

“Jaime,” she says, “is something wrong?”

“Nothing sweetling. Dinner’s soon. Are you hungry? I think we should go inside. They may serve soon.”

“Hmm. How about something else?”

“Something else?” he asks. “Like what?”

“Walk with me.”

She pulls out of the embrace. “Walk?” he asks, puzzled. “But they may have apple tarts.”

She grins. “I like you more than those. Come along, let’s walk.”

“I doubt that. They’re quite buttery and sweet. You must be lying.”

“I am not lying,” she assures, low and coy, before grabbing his hand, stealing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go,” she bids. “I know a nice place.”

Like things have been going, he lets her lead him along. He asks how training went now things are getting back to a routine, she replies it’s going well. Pod is even helping, and he could help too if he wanted. It may give him a small semblance of purpose outside of what he builds with Brienne. “You’re what I need,” he tells her.

She stops them, some distance away from another living soul. She pulls him in by the hand. “I want you to be you too,” she says.

He blinks, perplexed. “I am me.”

“I mean, have a life outside of the night.” She speaks lower. “Outside if me.”

He doesn’t say anything, and only nods to appease her. Not that he does;t think she’s right—in fact, his father used to tell him to make his own life. He just doesn’t know what else he should do. And, he likes living slowly these days, being with her. That’s what he needs.

She takes him to the place, the “place,” being the grand Weirwood tree. Brienne pulls him closer to her side underneath the tree’s expansive branches, the red of the leaves popping against the blue sky. He thinks they’ll stop there, until she leads him farther into the wood, to the place she says Sansa took her too a few days ago, the hot pools.

“I remember the hot pools,” Jaime says, recalling hearing about them when he was the golden lion who came to Winterfell with the King Robert Baratheon, though he had never been set foot anywhere near there. The area is green and mossy, steam rising from the water in a way that reminds him of the baths at Harrenhal. He almost thinks Brienne is going suggest another bath, one that’s another sort of intimate than the one they shared before, but she surprises him by merely sitting near the edge of the water, leading him to sit as well. She rests her head against his shoulder, and Jaime grabs her hand.

“Are you alright Ser Jaime?” she asks. “You seem far off.”

“I am far off,” he answers. He’s with her.

“Are you alright?”

He kisses the top of her forehead. “Of course.”

“Earlier, you seemed…not unwell, but troubled.”

She wants into his thoughts. He shouldn’t burden her with so much, so he talks about what’s easier. “I was talking with my brother,” he says. “Sooner or later I’m going to have to prove fealty to the dragon queen.”

“I see,” she says, believing that’s all.

He sighs. “Yes. Well. There are three problems with that situation.”

“But Tyrion knows the truth about your name and your oath” she says. “He could tell her, if he hasn’t already. She came to Winterfell to help save innocents. She’s bound to understand that you did what you had to do.”

“Three problems my lady,” Jaime corrects. “That’s one yes, but it’s not even the worst. The worst is that she’s likely not to forget I charged at her, and—”

Once she was relaxed, leaning against his shoulder, now she sits straight, brows furrowed. “You…what?” she asks, interrupting his speech.

That’s right, she doesn’t know. He can still feel the fire, hear his men scream in agony, smell the burning flesh. Yet he mocks himself in the retelling of his daring and fool’s assault on Goldroad that ended with Daenerys’s Targaryen’s dragon blasting fire right at him, and he laughs.

“I took a chance to end it. I had to end it then. No army could survive against one dragon. So I took spear, and I tried to end the war. Would have burned,” he says, too matter-of fact. “Bronn tossed me aside, into the water. Never liked swimming you know. Rather hard with armor—”

“Jaime,” she says, scolding, even if the matter is already done. “Why so serious?” he asks in reply. “I’m alive. Of course, I’ll never be in her good graces, but…”

“I…you could have been killed…you were told to go…”

“But I stayed, and I survived,” he reminds.

“You wanted to be with your men.”

“They put their trust in me. I had to stay,” he says simply. “No commander leaves their army. You know that.”

She sighs, though there’s a hint of a smile. He squeezes her hand. He sees a slight shift in her eye, a downward glance that must make her think of those under her command during the Long Night that didn’t see the morning. _No Brienne, losing someone under your command doesn’t get easier,_ he thinks of telling her. He doesn’t. She must already know. She’s too kind and just to be ignorant of the fact that men under a garrison aren’t a mere number, but a human.

“Of course she’s not to forget that,” Jaime says, diverting the subject.

“Well. Your houses were at war. They’re still at war,” Brienne says. “You saw an opportunity to end it, and stupid as that decision was…”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Brienne snorts. “As I was saying, perhaps she’d understand.”

She doesn’t sound confident. It’s more of a hopeful suggestion. It leads him to his third point, that he can’t swear fealty to the dragon queen, because he already has one.

“She’ll probably want me to make a grand show of it—bring all the lords of the North out, have me bend the knee and swear on my life I’m loyal to her.” His gaze flits to Brienne. “But I’m loyal to one…only one.”

“I…”

She turns bashful suddenly, cheeks pink and hiding her face away. “I…”

“You!” he exclaims, heart pounding. “I…oh…oh. Come here sweetling…I didn’t mean to make you believe it was anyone other than you. Ah, Bri…”

They kiss some, nuzzle their foreheads together, share the same breath. She forgives and they talk about the standstill in the war, He tells her he knows it’ll have to happen. He’ll swear his fealty to who he must, tell her personally he plans to stay North.

“You know that…well…it won’t end peacefully in the city, when she goes. I don’t know…” Brienne sighs. “Jaime, are you…?”

She struggles with the words, tiptoes over names. “She made her bed,” he says dismissively. “I made mine as well. Well. Ours,” he corrects. “This morning, I—”

“Don’t joke now,” she orders. “Jaime. I need you to tell me now. You understand what will happen. You said it, no army could beat that dragon. I—”

“I’m here,” he states. “I’m staying. I want to stay with you.” He takes her hand, squeezes it. “I’m here. Is that…”

“Swear it.”

Such severity, such a need. “Brienne, I—”

“I know you,” she says. “You’re a man of honor. You keep your oaths.” She glances to her sword, still strapped to her hip. “Give me your oath that you will stay with me, and I won’t have to only believe your word. I’ll know.”

“I’m staying with you,” he tells her, not a moment after. “Ser Brienne. Lady Brienne. Sweetling, Bri. I chose to stay with you. That is my oath.”

Her oath is a kiss, pressed delicately to his lips. He swore to her, gave her his oath. The only thing he regrets is not calling her his last pet name for her. He regrets not telling her what fully ailed him and made him troubled, even if he cannot even fully form the words. But it’s long past that time, and the moment is gone—and just in time for dinner.


	16. Goodnight Kisses

She feels his fingertips toy with the soft wisps of her hair. “Getting longer,” he mutters.

Brienne hums in acknowledgement. Feeling a slight chill, she pulls a fur blanket over her shoulder. “Humph,” Jaime says about that, still amused she prefers bundling up while he’s naked as the day he was born and still sweating as the fire cracks in the hearth, burning brightly. As much as she offers to compromise, he remains stubborn.

He tickles her back and her shoulders, and though it wasn’t the loud and uproarious laughter he likes the best, he’s compelled to continue. “Jaime,” she says between giggles. "I--"

“I know, I know. You need to be up early tomorrow for council…”

She buries her head in the pillow. “It’s not that,” she says, her voice muffled, wondering if she should say something, acknowledge what happened at dinner.

“I wonder…”

She tenses. He must realize what she's thinking of. “What do you wonder?” she asks, tentative.

“Where is my goodnight kiss?”

It wasn't what she thought, but she’s glad she’s not facing his side of the bed, as he’d see her expression falter. She doesn’t answer, but she does turn to him when she feels her expression has softened into something that won’t hurt his feelings or make him think she doesn’t want to kiss him. It’s not the case, of course she’d like to kiss him. He kissed her one time in front of the fire and the world disappeared into a quiet, burning heat that shrunk all things into only the two of them, making her want his kisses always, and make them turn her into someone she doesn’t recognize. It’s why she didn’t kiss him. He’d begin it and then she wouldn’t say what she needs to say, though she's stopped herself several times already since they disappeared into her room.

"Jaime..."

“You think the same as my brother, don’t you?”

His face falls. She curses herself, she must have given something away with a look, or not kissing him, not telling him goodnight as she has been. “Jaime, no,” she says, too incessant. He’ll know for sure now. “No.”

He sighs, turning from her, gazing straight at the ceiling. She presses closer to him, curses the golden hand he still wears in their bed—for the sake of everything holy, she’s not like her—and tells him everything will be alright. Everything will turn out fine.

“I’m not like him, you know,” Jaime says.

“He doesn’t think you are,” Brienne replies. “At dinner, he wasn’t trying to lecture you. He was only trying to say, he’s worried you’re not really doing anything.”

“I’m not like him,” he insists. “I don’t need grand plans. I don’t need whatever it is he’s getting with the Dragon Queen. I don’t need to pursue anything grand to be happy. Being alive makes me happy. Doesn’t anyone realize living is enough?”

“But we’re here for something.”

He raises his brows. “You believe that?”

“I must.”

He sighs. “Sweetling. You make me happy too.”

“Am I enough?”

She asks not desperately, or expecting him to say yes. He makes her happy. He does, this deeply infuriating, sometimes rude, dramatic, inspiring, beautiful man makes her happy the way no one else has before. Life is richer with him, and he feels the same. She never thought she would have that, so what she had with Renly made her content. I didn’t ask for more, and now I have it. But I want him to be him. That's why I love him, he let's me be me.

He doesn’t waver away from her eyes. “Yes.”

She inches closer, wonderfully alive yet desperately on the brink. She tries a new tactic. “Why did you join the Kingsguard Jaime?” she asks, thinking once there must have been more, knowing there was more. It was what drove him to do what he had to do, what drove him to save her from the bear.

He looks away, at her lips and not her eyes, as if transfixed. “I did it for love.”

“Love of the stories?” She motions to his bedside table and the books he has kept there—in the days since he gave her his oath, he has been reading more. “Desire to help those in need?”

He wavers. “In part, perhaps. Yet also…” He sighs. “It was to be close to her.”

Brienne frowns, moving back to her side of the bed and turning away from him. The display is gross and petty, she knows it, and jealously does no one any good. She knows his past, knows she would rather him honest, and mostly, if not all, it’s not jealousy. She knew inklings of that man, she met him briefly when Lady Catelyn brought her to him. But she saw him transform so much in the time she knew him. She sees two different version of Jaime. Lost Jaime, and found Ser Jaime. Found Jaime is her Jaime. Bringing up the before, that's the man that's not hers.

He drifts closer to her, brushes errant hair away from her face before drawing a careful line down her shoulder. “Ser Brienne, Lady Brienne,” he sweet talks. “Bri…”

“I’m not jealous,” she informs him, though perhaps it’s in just the right way to let him know, maybe she is.

“I know, you think you’re better for my health.” He chuckles. “It’s true. You are. And it’s alright to be jealous. I was jealous.”

“Of Tormund Gianstbane, who I have no relationship with, who didn’t save me, who isn’t you…”

He smirks. Well, now she’s done it. She’s made his already big head even bigger. She’s afraid he’s going to boast, from now until forever, and it’s going to begin now. Yet though he does continue to smirk, proud of himself, he inches closer to her, nuzzles his head against hers in accordance to the house cat he’s both called himself and been called in the days since they’ve been together. It’s why his brother brought it up at dinner that he should find some sort of plan or purpose. Cats are content to remain rooted to their home, lions aren’t, and he’s a lion.

But she sees him, she knows what’s him. She tells him so. That’s not him anymore.

He’s lovelorn, hopeless, floating and without a place to land. “I stopped believing when they gave me their name,” he says softly, “all until I met you. It was all you. I wanted to be a knight again, because of you. And I gave you what I gave the night before battle, because…”

“I know why Jaime,” she says. “It’s the same reason you’re in my—our bed. It…” She takes his face in her hands, and she gives him that goodnight kiss he’s been seeking. Slow, deep, her hands sliding against his bare back. What others wouldn’t call making love, as he’s kept her a maid in other’s arbitrary terms to waits for her to ask, they’ve made love every night in some way they’ve been together, all until this night. She had been worried for him since he gave her his oath, not voiced it until his brother did at dinner that night: Jaime wanders and only wanders when he’s not with her. She has been wondering if it’s right, but also taken with the idea that she has that sort of power.

“Don’t doubt me, please don’t doubt me. This is where I want to be,” he tells her between kisses. “This is what I want. You. No other place, this place.”

“This place isn’t just me,” she has to tell him. “The North is vast.”

“I’m here by you.”

“What else will you do Jaime?

“Oh _no_.”

Everything in her protests when he unlaces himself from her, retreating more to his side of the bed. “You do worry like Tyrion does,” he announces, looking anywhere but at her. “Well. I don’t care what they say here or what they call me when they think I can’t hear… that I just came here and planted myself near you because I tired of Cersei and wanted something else. I don’t love her anymore. She betrayed me. I came here because I made a promise. How many times must I say it? I thought I was going to die Brienne. We all did. I stayed because I feel safe with you, and I don’t want that taken away. When we were together and there was only us, I understood. I finally understood. Please. Don’t…make me into something else like everyone else. Like _her_.”

“I’m not making you into something else,” she assures, gentle, reaching out and tucking locks of hair behind his ear and away from his face. She wants to see his eyes. “I want you to be happy,” she says. “I care. Your brother cares. He wants to make sure you’re alright, just like I do.”

“I am happy. I am alright. More alright than I have been. There’s no expectation to do something, it's...”

Freeing. She wonders if he's ever been able to breathe before.

“I’m happy like this,” he promises her, breathing, free. “There’s time to decide, time to just be.”

She holds him close, saying nothing, but wrapping an arm around him, fingertips gentle against scars new and old. She traces the ones he received in battle, feels him fall into her arms again. “You’re still worried I won’t be happy,” he says as fact, resigned, yet wrapping his left arm around her, playing with her hair. “This is what matters. I have to be happy, so long as there’s us.”

“Even if it’s only us?”

“You and Tyrion sound exactly like my father. Legacy this, putting down roots…Love is what’s important. You say that like love isn’t the reason why we’re here.”

He’s careful in his gentleness, careful not to caress her with his golden hand. _Take if off,_ she inwardly chants. _I want you, only you_.

"So. You do believe there's more to this, living."

He's caught. “Sweetling…”

“What if something happens to me?” .

"You’re indestructible,” he scoffs. How quickly he brushes it off.

“No one is,” she counters. “Jaime…”

“What do you want me to do Brienne?” he demands, and she understands she’s gone too far. “Besides, haven’t you read? All knights are devoted to their women.”

“I’m a knight too,” she reminds him. “This is a bit of a different story than one you’d usually find in books.”

“Ours, so better, yes,” he says. “Even if..."

He doesn't continue. "What?" she prods.

"Even if I'm angry at you."

"You are not!"

"I am. Quite. Quite, quite angry."

“Ah. Jaime.” She cups his cheek in her hand, brings his eyes to hers. He may be angry as he says, but he’s still soft. “We’re supposed to take care of each other,” she says. “That’s the rule.”

“According to who? Please don’t be angry, but neither of us are very…experienced. We're both bad at this.” He humphs. "Yet I may be far worse."

“It’s my rule, Ser Jaime,” she states, though she’s convinced no one can write a book on how to love. People are ever changing, no two alike. Though she’s convinced, she can write a book on loving Ser Jaime. It would contain one single phrase. _Let him be him, love him as he is._

“Take care of me, and I will you,” she promises. “That is my oath.”

He turns even softer, not mad, not anymore. “Alright.”

They've settled to their respective sides of the bed when the idea forms itself. “Why don’t you come with me to the training yard tomorrow?” she suggests. “Show them a few techniques and strategy.”

“They don’t like me,” he says, too dismissively. “They know what I did and who I am.”

“But you fought for them during the Long Night. You stayed.”

“The North remembers.”

“Sansa likes you,” she says, grasping and pretending she isn’t.

“Because you like me,” he counters, shifting. “You do like me, don’t you?”

She’d point out the many things she’s done that prove she does, but too exasperated, she assures, and loudly at that, “ _yes!_ ”

"But I insult you all the time."

"Jaime, are you drunk?"

"No. One drink. That's all I had."

"You're dramatic when you've been drinking. More dramatic," she amends. "Believe me. If I didn't like you, you'd share someone else's bed."

He bites his lip. “Ah. Well. You're right. I’m sorry. Truly."

She's about to cover up, get to sleep, and then our of nowhere, he asks why she's making "that face."

“What face?” she wonders. “Jaime. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.”

“The...confused one, where your brow is furrowing."

"I'm not--"

"No Brienne, please no,” pleads, holding onto her, pulling blankets down. “I don’t want you to think the same as everyone else. Everyone else…they think I’ll be here for a while, with you for a while and then I’ll leave. Out of everyone, you can't think that. Not you.”

She stares.“…who says this?”

“Those in the smithy, those in the kitchens. Do you see them as we walk by, hear what they say? They think that I don’t really want you, or that I’ll change my mind. Maybe because of what I did before, but…they don’t know me like you do. I don’t do this lightly. I’m with you and that means something. It means forever.”

Of course that’s what they say. Jaime is Jaime, and Brienne is herself. Tall, brutal, a woman but not a woman. Who would believe? She wouldn’t have, not if she lived it, not if she knew who he was underneath the mask they gave him. If she were as beautiful as the dragon queen, beautiful as Sansa, no one would ask, they would know and call it for what it was, a love story. But she’s Brienne, and he is a knight.

“Please, believe me,” he begs of her. “I gave you my oath.”

“I believe you,” she promises. “It’s…”

He waits and she searches, not wishing to burden him with her own doubts and remembrances of past japes and cruelness. He’s given her no reason not to believe, he gives her reasons why he wants to stay every day, and then in her desperate search for an explanation, she says, stupidly says, “you won’t take it off.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move for a moment. “Take It off if you want it off so much,” he finally says. “That must be why you haven't said you wanted to make love to me yet. You must think the same as the others. I’m still the Kingslayer. I’m still the Oathbreaker. And I know what you’re thinking. I take it off and you’ll see me and only me. But this isn’t a story. Taking it off isn’t going to do anything. It—"

“It will make sleeping easier.”

Staring at her right in the eye, he takes it off, unfastening it and setting it on the bedside table. She says nothing, only touches him, reassures. He seems relieved. She pieces together why.

“You know what you said…you know that’s not true,” she says.

"I know.”

“Then tell me the truth: are you happy?”

He’s not holding himself back anymore, he touches her and it’s warm, because it’s all him. “What is it, with needing a plan, needing a purpose?” he wonders, still holding her. “What would I do anyway? What do people expect me to do? Go back South? To do what? Fight a loosing battle perhaps? No. I want to stay I won’t fight for her, not anymore. And Brienne…you’re here. You make it worthwhile. And yes, I know, I know. Don’t give me that look, I know. You think I need to do something else, like Tyrion, and not just wander, not just be near you.”

“I do…agree with your brother,” she admits. “But it is as I told you, I want you to be you.”

“This is me.”

“I know there’s also more,” she states.

“Well yes,” he says, flippant. “But sweetling, I—"

“Jaime. I don’t wish to quarrel any longer. Go to bed,” she orders, sinking to her side, giving him a blanket in case he needs one during the night. He never does, but she gives him one all the same, to be safe. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Will you kiss me goodnight?”

He sounds like such a little boy, that she does, turning back over and quickly kissing his cheek. “Oh, that’s not a kiss,” he says, wrapping both his arms around her. She gives him that proper kiss, that heated, weighted kiss and he gives all of the unmasked him, even that part of him that loves that he doesn’t directly voice. _He mentioned love, he mentioned love,_ she thinks with a thrill, kissing him harder, loving him harder, especially now, during the night. Night isn’t morning, where they’re going to have to talk again. Night is for kisses, night is when you mention love.


	17. Music

He’s been mocked most of his life, called a Lannister to his face and Kingslayer behind his back. It’s no different here in Winterfell. Still, like before, no one suspects he has good ears. He even has an assortment of new names he’s come to hear. Kitten that attaches himself to Sansa Stark’s protector. Little housecat, fallen lion, and cub are more. Clever, he’ll give them that, even if maybe they derived them all for his own little name for himself and they find themselves infinitely creative. Not so creative, but either way, he’s taught himself not to pay mind to jeers. What he minds is that Brienne does,  _Brienne!_ Out of everyone, Brienne sees underneath. How doesn’t she realize being with her makes him the happiest? Names mean nothing to him, only love. Why isn’t that enough for her? Why does she put expectations on him like all the rest? Knights are loyal, faithful to those they chose to pledge themselves to. He’s chosen her. He’d never want to leave her. Yes, she’s a knight as much as he, capable of protecting herself and him. Yet she’ll always be his lady. That is what matters. Arthur Dayne would understand.

He sighs inside Winterfell’s hall, barely acknowledging Podrick as he takes a seat near him on the bench. When Ser Arthur tapped him on the shoulders with his sword, he saw a lion, not a house cat. Jaime would have to apologize if he saw him, tell him he’s sorry he can’t uphold his vows of knighthood as well as he’d thought. But what should he do now? If he travels Westeros as some good deed doer that he’s read and reread about, how should he plant myself by his chosen? She’s sworn to protect the Stark girl. Seven Hells, he sent her off to find the Stark girl. And Brienne cares about her now. They’re friends. He can’t ask her to leave and travel off with him from Dorn to the Quiet Isle, especially now.

Even so, Jaime’s mind wanders. It’s a reverie, these wandering images of the two of them traveling together, their swords strapped to their belts as they walk hand in hand. It interweaves with images of them in bed, his previous favorite image. They’re both the same height in bed. It’s only them, and it’s quiet and comfortable, free. Yet this image of them, traveling and seeking together, feels simultaneously grand and homey. Safer even, though that’s most perplexing of all, he can’t be as safe on the road as he is in bed, huddled away, exploring architecture of a different sort.

To travel with her. He grins, and Podrick asks, rather conspiratorially, if he had a good morning. “No,” Jaime replies, matter-of-fact, as he had rather abysmal morning, fighting with her. But oh, to travel with her again, where they were both safe and free with no plan of any sort. They’d go to Tarth first. He’d sail away with her to the Sapphire Isle, hold her hand as they approach the bluest of blue waters. _I’ve seen this before,_ he would tell her. _When we sailed to Dorn, I saw the Sapphire Isle. I thought of you._ He would say he’s never seen anything more astonishing, but he’s seen Brienne’s eyes. But of course, they’d sail to Tarth and then Brienne would ask why he went to Dorn, and he’d have to tell her it was for Myrcella. He’d have to tell her he couldn’t save his daughter.

He clenches his hand. Maybe they shouldn’t sail away.

“I think she’s cross with you,” Podrick says with little ceremony, ripping a chunk of bread from the roll on the table.

“I’m cross with her,” Jaime replies. He even feigned sleeping that morning. He wanted to talk, yes, but he didn’t want to talk about what she wanted to talk about, which would have been his seeming lack of direction. Then she said, “I know you’re awake,” and they quarreled, quipping about knighthood and love, even though he said they’re both so horribly bad at it. No one is good at it, she maintained. We all must learn. And he kept the golden hand off, which surely made her happy because she believes the hand is part of his mask and façade. He supposes he imagined a lovely make up scene, but what happened was nothing like he would have wanted where his sin of misdirection was deemed not a sin at all. She didn’t tackle him to the bed and furiously cleanse him and forgive, but she left, left for the War Council and didn’t even part from him with a kiss. He likes to feel stained by her lips before parting in the morning, and he feels naked as he eats a late breakfast with Podrick. Both the cheese and bread are stale, and the warm milk is lukewarm and a bit sour, though not quite as sour as his mood yet.

“What does she want me to do?” Jaime asks. “What does anyone want me to do? Do something that entertains them? I wasn’t born for anyone else, only me. I’m not here for people to call names at, jeer at. I want to do what I want, I want to live freely, and I want to be with her. Does she not understand I gave up my house? I gave up all I know because she inspired me. And now we’re alive, and can’t I just enjoy being alive?”

“No one is telling you you can’t,” Pod says, bowing his head.

“They all expect me to do something. Even Brienne. Maybe especially Brienne.”

Breaking off bits of stale bread, he asks Pod what he does when he’s not eating breakfast or lunch. “Help Ser Brienne, train,” Pod replies. “Or sometimes they need help in the smithy. It all depends.” He finishes his milk and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Boring things I’m sure, compared to what your used to.”

“I don’t know. I think boring is exactly what someone needs sometimes.”

“Not all the time.”

“I’m sure one day I’ll find something,” he admits with a measure of severity, “but…”

He sighs, recalls her bare legs against his, the way she sighs when he kisses her. “What do you want to do, really?” Pod asks, and Jaime answers. Truly, he just wants to be with her, make sure she’s happy. “But I’m so bad at this,” he regrets, peeking up at Pod. “I’m sure she’s told you about my…seduction.” He groans. “ _Ugh._ Who does that?”

“Ser Jaime Lannister, I imagine.”

Jaime glares. “Suppose we’re at an impasse now. She wants to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but she’s planted herself near Florian the Fool.”

“Plants can grow,” Pod says.

“Maybe I like being the fool.”

“You don’t miss being commander? Being on a battlefield?”

Jaime considers. He used to tell his sister two things made him more alive than anything else: fucking and fighting. Perhaps with one there is still truth, yet with the other…

“Not anymore,” he told Pod. “I never realized how much there is to lose.”

“And what have you to lose, if you try something new?”

“That must be what you say at the brothel, eh?”

He makes no admittances, but he doesn’t deny. Jaime smiles at him a little. “You know,” he begins, without measuring why, “she cares about you a lot. And—”

He almost tells him he considered him part of his family during the battle. That’s part of the reason why he tried so hard to live when he never feared death before. It was because of Brienne, because of the family she made and how he felt toward her. But he feels tidings of something, something that’s not because of Bri.

He says nothing. He doesn’t think Pod expected him to either.

“She’s frustrated, not angry at you,” Pod says after an extended pause, when Jaime can’t form words to his thoughts, when he decides not to speak. “But,” he adds, a touch hopeful, “I think she likes being angry at you.”

“The wench is stubborn. As stubborn as me. All I want is to talk about nice things, and—"

“That’s not life, Ser Jaime.”

“How old are you?” Jaime suddenly wonders. “Actually—don’t answer that. You’re not old enough to tout around the truth to me.”

“Is anyone?”

“My father is dead. No. But, maybe…” he rises from the bench. “Maybe I like being angry at her too. Do you remember when we met? Ah, of course you don’t, you weren’t there. Well, she was taking me to King’s Landing, and she would keep telling me not to provoke her to anger, even though I already had been.” She also pulled him into her arms, forced their eyes to meet. He had driven her to a rage because he dared to speak ill of Renly. “Shut your mouth,” she demanded. We can’t choose who we love, he remembers telling her. He’s not sure if he believes it more or less now.

He continues, nostalgic. “Ah Pod, she hated me then.” It’s almost as if he misses being covered in mud and half a corpse, being shackled and being loathed by Brienne. “Course, she’s probably not so fond of me now,” he must say. “At least she kissed me goodnight, if she forgot the morning.”

“Quite a romance Ser Jaime.”

“Yes,” Jaime agrees. “I’m fond of it myself.”

Funny thing about romances, they always end after the couple admits they want to be together. They didn’t even do that, he realizes with a grimace at himself, all he did was ask if he could share her bed with all that entails. No grand declaration, just a march to her door and enthusiastic kisses. Good kisses though. But it’s not coming together that matters so much Jaime realizes, even if it makes a good story. It’s staying together. Working out how, bending, compromising. Figuring out what he should do, wondering if it will come to him, hoping it will, and being with her through it all.

Pod asks if he would follow him to the training yard, reminding him that Brienne will be there when she’s done with the council. When Jaime marches with Pod outside, the clank of swords growing louder, the intrusive thought of perhaps she’s right springs to his mind, rather rudely at that, and almost as loud as the noise outside. If he thinks harder, he may understand why she’s so adamant about his own life outside of her. It all has to do with before, and bending his life to another, and what he believed in. The only difference from the before is he wants to be with Brienne. He sees it as a pleasure to bend his life to her, not a thing that must be done because he was told to, because they were a reflection, because they belonged in an arbitrary way. He didn’t question then, how could he not? But he’s there to question now, to see that maybe to some degree, you can choose who you love. He chose and it happened all on its own, but he wants to stay. He wants to grow.

“Are you alright, Ser Jaime?”

“The past, the past,” he tells Pod, for no other reason at all, other than he trusts him. “That’s all.”

“Stay here,” Pod beckons.

To the music of swords and battle, he glances at the open sky. “What shall I do here, if not be with her?” he wonders.

“Get on with it maybe,” he suggests with a shrug.

Bearded Northmen, a ginger he thinks is Tormund Gianstsbane but won’t look at fully because he doesn’t wish to acknowledge him, and a few young boys gathered in the training yard notice his prescence while other carry on with their little sword games. Some blatantly stare while others glance. expecting him to do something, wondering what brings the house cat out and about. He’s not here to entertain them however, yet when Pod tugs on his cloak and suggests Jaime show him to parry, he wonders if he needs a good stretch. And Pod’s so eager, gripping his sword, ready.

Yet Jaime remembers. “I can’t show anyone how to parry, I have a golden hand.”

Pod’s eyes narrow. “You survived the battle. I think your more than capable.”

“So did you. Why don’t you show me how to do a proper shield wall?”

“Shield wall? Well, you need a shield, and a wall—”

“That’s not quite how it—"

“Ah. Ser Jaime. Nice of you to join us.”

Brienne approaches, Oathkeeper strapped to her hip. Her presence doesn’t go unnoticed, a few men even greet her. She nods back. Jaime gulps. Even when she’s angry at him, she still carries the sword he gave her, still kisses him. He’s cross with her, but he still has to reel himself back from contemplating her astonishing eyes and proud stance that demands I am what I am what I am and fuck all those who think so. Of course she wouldn’t say “fuck,” not unless it was special circumstances that called for it, but she’s proud of who she is and he’s proud to be with someone so proud. But is she stubborn, so very stubborn. He can be just as, if he wills it.

He wills it.

“Ser Brienne,” he intones, bowing his head in greeting.

“You’ve left our bed.”

He’s aware the clink of swords are diminishing, at the mention of the two of them, sharing a bed. They’re amazed at Brienne of Tarth and her house cat who’s temporarily on the prowl. Our bed, she had said. He smiles at the turn of phrase, ours.

“I thought you were to stay there all day.”

He shrugs with indifference. Things said in times of dour attitudes are not to be trusted, he tells her so.

“Jaime—"

“I asked him to come,” Pod says, rather proudly. “I thought he could show us something.”

Brienne raises her brows. “Oh? Where’s your sword, Ser Jaime?”

A small crowd circles around, even more stopping to snoop and act as a voyeur to this lover’s spat. Indeed, his sword is strapped to his hip, concealed by his cloak. He keeps it hidden, for now. “Are we really going to do this? Ser Brienne?”

“Where is your sword, Ser Jaime?” she repeats, slower this time.

He licks his lips. “Which one?”

An ill jape, he’s aware, but it does elicit snickers from nearly everyone,the ginger especially. Certainly it's Tormund. Even Brienne has the faintest hint of a smile before Jaime smirks, unsheathing his blade.

“Would you like a duel, sweetling?” Jaime asks. “Or a dance, perhaps?”

“I beat the Hound in single combat.”

“Trying to warn me? I am not the Hound. There’s only me.”

“You can’t pretend you’re asleep now, Ser Jaime,” she warns.

He shifts. “You can’t kiss your way out of this, Ser Brienne.”

“Draw.”

He holds up his hand. “You really wish to do this in front of people?”

“I wish for you,” she says, enunciating each word, each turn of phrase. “Now. Draw your sword. Satisfy me.”

She changes her stance and he’s on fire. He’ll satisfy and make her crave. He begins the duel, shifting and circling. She mirrors his motion, Oathkeeper in hand. She’s fond of the broad while he favors the sword and shield. No shield today, only him and Widow’s Wail, yet he can adapt. She calls him Kingslayer. She always had no problem saying it to his face. He calls her wench, thinks it’s distressing the crowd must watch Jaime Lannister chastise his wife so, but she has asked, and who is he not to satisfy?

The rules of single combat are simple. The first to disarm their opponent wins. He won’t make this too painful he thinks as there’s a shift to the right and a shift to the left. Their sword clang and meet, kissing and springing and clanking together in a tune of the music he’s accustomed to. His body sings. If the last time he fought it was to stay alive and endure trying to breathe in the chaos of the long night, now as he’s equally if not better matched, he lives while fully breathing and winning even while losing. It’s Oathkeeper that does it, and the woman who wields it. It’s a seamless extension of her arm and her soul, reminding him his sword is not his sword, but Joffrey’s, and he’s taken it and never formed his left hand to it. His true disadvantage, not the loss of his sword hand. The blades kiss again, and she pushes him backward. He briefly stumbles yet regains his footing almost instantaneously, and only because Brienne falls back. She’s less inclined to win, he realizes, as a firmer shove would have disarmed him and made her the victor, but she’s inclined to play a prolonged game. It will be her desire that does it for her. Jaime plays to win.

Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail clang and sing louder at such a venue. They sing at Winterfell, their place of origin, and the two halves praise Ned Stark as they re-forge to become his sword Ice again through lion and sun, Jaime and Brienne. There’s poetry in their game and spat, and a dance as Brienne lunges and he lunges back. Her shouting and grunting gives it all away. He’d say it spoils the fun—in fact he recalls telling her that before, the last time they dueled—but the noises compel him to hush. He fights like he makes love, he moves when she moves, he’s moved when she moves, and he’s alive and on fire, almost glad he’s sword hand is crafted from beaten gold, for what fun would it be to have it over so quickly? Their spectators agree, they cry out, pick sides. He wants no sides, only the two of them. They take it easy and they take it slow, even as they become more erratic. “Don’t hold back,” he huffs, sweat beading against his brow, deflecting a long strike. “The music is still playing.”

She can hear it. They dance. He leads before he let’s her take control. He would think the crowd, spellbound by the one-handed man and brave knight would deter her, but it does nothing of the sort. His lady’s an exhibitionist, but that’s one thing one must be to lead or command. He loses himself in her fire, in her determined eyes. The crowd collectively holds their breath as Jaime Lannister stumbles back. He doesn’t do it for them, he does it for her, he does it because what would he win if he won? For her, it’s better to lose at a match he’s already winning.

He let’s Widow’s Wail slip from his grasp, Oathkeeper cracking against it before it falls to the side. He expected that. He expected no pounce, no fall to the ground to be straddled, but it’s all sky and then sapphires of her alive eyes. His heart beats, she lets her sword drop near is, pinning his hands over his head. He sees a love song, he sees a poem. He sees his won a match he intended to lose and lost a match he intended to win. And she’s pressing him further to the ground, a breath away, and she gasps at the feel of him—the feel of her heat moving against his covered arousal.

“I’m still cross with you,” he says.

She moves and he groans with the faintest pleasure. She leans down, kisses him. Minx, exhibitionist, devourer. Brienne, chastising her husband.

“No you’re not,” she whispers.

She devours, they exhibit. Others stare. She’s right of course, as she brims with honesty as all knights have. He’s not cross, not at all. He’s music and they are music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you for reading!


	18. Ounces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is VERY NSFW :3

Sometimes Jaime moans when Brienne kisses him. Pressed against the castle’s stone wall, the plate of her armor must be uncomfortable against his torso, but his arms wrap around her still, pressing her harder against him. She’s the hardest soldier on the field to others, but to him, she’s soft. He continues with lulling content noises as she bows her head, as he’s left her knees weak and yielding. His ardent mouth will make her sink to the ground, honey-like and boneless, and begging for more. Yet with the strength of one hand, he lifts her back to her full height, unashamed she’s taller yet prouder he’s broader. Her hands cup his face to cradle, his beard chaffs her mouth, and still she wants to be littered by him, marked by him, carry on this duel of a different sort. They’re still on fire, still teeming and tingling from battle and the share of soul and breaths. Sharing, and certainly not cross anymore, if he ever was cross.

“I’m not cross with you,” he says, pressing their foreheads together, and that clarifies that. “I’m…tired,” he settles with. “That’s all.”

“Of expectations?”

He nods. “Ah, Brienne. I want time. I want freedom. I want us to travel, leave everything and start anew. That’s what I want. I’m sure I can find something that makes me happy here— other than you of course— but let me have this, this small modicum of freedom. Please. _Please_ ”

She holds his face in her hands. “I know Jaime, I know.”

“You don’t care about the opinions of sheep, do you? That’s what hurt. I don’t care what other people say. It’s what you say, what you think.” He sighs. “Ah, what do you think, Brienne?”

“Complicated answer,” she replies, and he clenches her wrist, keeps her hand where it is. It makes her admittance easier, that yes she did once care about the opinions of sheep. Jeers stung in the past, so much so she unwillingly carried them with her, even as she embraced what made her unique and gradually learned to stop caring what others said, and make herself content with such little affection from ones she cared for. She sees it now, how little it was, how she would have had to stretch the ounce of affection Renly gave her to last a lifetime. It’s bliss and it’s overwhelming, that she doesn’t have to stretch one ounce anymore. Jaime has given her a thousand ounces already, and there’s only more to come. She can be greedy with him, a luxury unavailable before. Demand, order, compel from him, and give when he asks and needs. So many ounces, so much time, of course there will be complications, arguments, stepping stones. They’re both bad at this. They have to learn.

She pulls on his hair, nips at his lip and moans into a deepened kiss. The vibration of his chuckle (he’s amused she’s so needy) adds an extra thrill. He set her on fire when he became the lion on the field, kisses brighten the flame. He answers eagerly, and though she has an idea to go back to their quarters, another idea emerges.

“Follow me,” she beckons.

She takes him to the hot springs. Jaime’s eyes widen as she begins to strip to her smalls near the water’s edge. “Here? Won’t we be cold?” he asks, but Brienne only laughs. She explains she intends for them to get into the water and share a bath like they did before.

“You’re nostalgic,” Jaime gathers, grinning. “Alright. I’ll get in, so long as it’s not too deep. Perhaps I’ll scrub your back for you.”

“It’s not too deep, but even if it were, it would be fine.”

He humphs, and she remembers what he said before, about not caring for swimming. She wouldn’t force him into something he didn’t want to do, but she tiptoes around the subject, mentions the pool near her old home in Tarth where she learned to swim, and how clear her mind used to be there, how free she was. “I could teach you to swim,” she suggests, gently setting her armor aside.

“I know how to swim,” he informs, puffing out his chest. “When I was a boy, I leapt off of the cliffs at Casterly Rock and learned quickly enough. It’s not a hobby one should do in armor, that’s all.”

“You were wearing armor as a boy?”

“No, but I was at the Golden Fields.”

“Someday, if we ever go back, I’ll teach you the proper way,” Brienne promises.

“Ah. _We_?”

He speaks with such delight. “Yes, we,” she says, equally thrilled. “Once, here in fact, I told Lady Sansa I wouldn’t want to go back unless I knew I wasn’t alone. And even if you infuriate me, even if I’m cross with you…”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t feel alone with you,” she continues, carrying an amusement at his utter petulance, despite her best self. “So yes, there is a “we,” Ser Jaime, man who shares my bed, kisses me, plants himself near me…”

“Loves you.”

He approaches. She sees a little hint of smile, a sweetness that hints at the little child inside the man, bouncing with excitement for finally admitting a secret. Inwardly she praises his braveness while chiding her own self for not telling him when the first spark of realization drifted to her mind in the heat battle. But that was her own love for him she would have admitted—not his. Jaime admits his love for her not with a grand flourish, but with such a matter-of-fact, sensible, yet romantic way that makes her see him for how brave he really is. He states his state of mind so freely, with no grandiose attempts to sweep her off her feet. He’s factual and he’s a little boy inside of a man, and he’s her favorite.

She has a thought that he would kneel, like he did when he asked her if she would have him serve under her command. She’ll have him and she’ll have him, yes, though he doesn’t kneel. Yet he does take her hand, kisses it. She takes his other. She waits for a flinch, a no. He has none. He’s only Jaime, and that’s who he wants to be.

He nods. She unfastens the golden hand, awkwardly holding onto it before he takes it and tosses it aside, right near where she delicately placed parts of her armor earlier. “Ugly, ugly,” he says with such nonchalance at the stump. She doesn’t think so. She takes it in her hands, leaves a kiss. It’s just a small kiss there, yet it might by their most important.

The golden hand is left forgotten along with the rest of their clothes and armor by the bank of the water. They’re cold for the briefest moments before Brienne pulls them in the water. “Not too deep,” he asks, so she’s careful to hold onto him. They both easily touch the ground, and they could be deeper, perhaps past their waists, but she wants him safe above all. He sighs at the heat, sighs longingly at her nakedness. Appreciation, not lechery, far from it. He sees she takes up space, is a work of art in the way she does, and he would have it no other way. And she admires him in the water, his ropey shoulders and strength of him. She admires, and he asks, “tell me of this pool you learned to swim.” Brienne speaks of the sapphire waters, the warmth of the water and the lazy bank by the pool she’d lay to dry near. A paradise, not unlike where they are, though the pool in Tarth elicits more nostalgia.

“I’d like you to be there,” she says,

“I like the sound of that.”

She turns to honey, clinging to her lover and sinking against his frame, even as her heart races, and some feral part of her says it’s a trap. “What’s wrong sweetling?” Jaime, indulgently wonders, his hand gliding down her back. She could say it’s the heat of the water, but it’s his thousands of ounces he’s so willingly giving. How can she take his love, and let him know it’s the same for her?

“Bri…”

“Jaime,” she says, burying her face into his shoulder, the water around them making the matter less awkward, allowing her to shrink to his height more fluidly. “Do you know how frightening it is?”

“What’s frightening?” he continues to indulge, concerned.

To be loved is frightening, to be wanted and desired. “To have a man—and you at that—bend his life to mine so willingly, and without any shame,” she must tell him.

“What’s so frightening about wanting to love?”

“It’s more than an ounce I’m used to. It’s everything. It’s so much everything sometimes I believe it can’t be real, and I’ll wake and you’ll be gone. I—”

“I’ll be alright,” he promises. “I’ll be here. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He tilts her chin, allows their eyes to lock. The kiss takes her breath away, creates an unspoken dialogue told through their lingering glances. Brienne sighs, content, her limbs honey-like again, all because of Jaime. She wields a kiss of gratitude, a kiss to her Oathkeeper. He chuckles when he’s happy, she feels the light rumble. He praises the beauty of happy Brienne, swaying them in the water, yet he also calls her a minx, specifically when she’s angry. Yes, Brienne on fire thrills him, she became aware of that earlier as they made up through the clash of their twin swords. She feels his arousal then in the water, slightly thrusting her hips to his. He bits his lip, let’s his eyes sweep across her bare shoulders and other parts.

“You’re handsome in the water,” she praises in turn.

Quizzically, he raises his brows, though he’s clearly pleased. “I see through this. Trying to get me to swim one day, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she admits. “But it’s true.”

“Lions don’t swim. Neither do house cats.”

“But I’ll be there,” she lets him know. “I’ll show you how to swim properly.”

“Will you protect me from sharks?”

She chuckles. “There are no sharks in the small pool. And even if there were, yes. I would protect you. I protect the ones I love.”

He has a look in his eye, mischievous and knowing. She inquires.

“Brienne,” he sing-songs, squeezing her hip.

“Jaime…” she sings back.

He grins. “You do love me.”

She blinks. “Did you have any doubt, man that shares my bed?”

“Well.” He holds her closer. “Nice to hear it, is all.”

But lovers speak a language in another way. Jaime speaks with gentle touches and warm embraces. Brienne follows, says I love you through a deep kiss. His tongue pokes through, asking for an entrance she allows. He’s keen on his tongue, a bit too much, she dials it back and stifles a giggle when his mouth moves to her neck. He worships the scars there as if he’s sorry they happened, but she wears them proudly, forever a reminder of how they came together. They’re cloaked under a canopy of green leaves and branches dusted with snow, and standing under soft moss. The water is warm, warmer than Harrenhal. She feels gentle when he touches her. First tentatively, then bolder, grasping sinews, observing curves, an explorer and a worshipper.

It’s not his idea that they return to shore, but hers. She lays on the bank, legs partially submerged as he moves to blanket her body. Her arms spread on either side of her against the damp moss. She asks if he’s cold at all out of the water and by the bank. He shakes his head. He only feels her. He wants a world of her, a sea and sky of her. She’s overwhelmed again, worried. She should tell him that she cannot make herself into his sea and sky, she wants him happy elsewhere and apart from her, because she knows he thinks he must totally bend himself until he’s a reflection of his lover, not one who stands alone. _Stand alone, Ser Jaime,_ she wants to say. _But love me and grow with me_. A contradiction, yet the two of them are contradictions, lovers, and together. They learn.

“Indulge,” he whispers against the curve of her hip, thumb gently circling her most sensitive parts. “Breathe, and indulge.”

“Jaime—”

“You’re tense,” he explains. “What are you thinking about? The matters before? Oh sweetling. Please don’t worry. You always think, always have duty on your mind. Even sometimes when we’re making love.”

“That’s not true.”

She tries to rise, but he gently eases her back down. “Truly, you’re inspiring with your words and your actions. You’ve inspired me. But…”

His head dips down again. She gasps. He licks her once, spreading her thighs further apart and tasting her.

“…but lie back and let me worship you,” he breathes.

It takes a moment. Odd, because it’s not as though they haven’t done this before, that Jaime hasn’t used his tongue to give her pleasure. But eventually, reminding herself learning is a process, she throws her head back and allows her body to surrender to the thousands of jolts of lightning-like pleasure that his tongue and fingers bring until her entire body is made from honey, languid against the banks of the water. He’s quick to kiss her back to life, smirking with pride at his work, and thinking he’s turned her into art. He kisses and she holds, and though he’s never truly asked in their togetherness, much less demanded, she wishes for it—an ordering, commander Jaime, that takes and takes. Yet he’s always gentle, and never once has prodded or demanded she take all of him. What sweet endings he’s had before this, all through her hand or other matters. Still making love, and yet she’s intrigued to learn.

She takes a hold of him, lets the pad of her thumb rub the tip of him. He drips with the before. She entices, opening her thighs, but he only lets himself be gently encased by her outer lips until he’s covered by her arousal and want. Ordering, Commander Jaime isn’t her Jaime, never will be. He’s a different sort, one that prefers to give.

If she asks he will give.

She grabs a hold of him once more, slowly moves her hand up and down. He moans and sinks further into her body, thinking she’ll send him coming with her hand and have her spill onto her belly as he’s done before. Instead, his eyes grow wide when she positions him between her thighs. He can handle the rest, she’s sure, yet he’s achingly slow, almost too slow, as she feels the tip, and only the tip of him, inside her. She relaxes, eases, waits for him. That is the decision she’s made, and she nods, sure he knows what she’s chosen. On his knees, pushing more of himself in, Brienne watches him watch her. He waits for a flinch or a sign of discomfort, ready to fling himself out if it hurts too much, if she says she isn’t ready.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she promises.

“Do I feel good to you?” he has to ask, not with a wicked grin as perhaps she would expect, but a young lover inside a grizzled and hardened man, worried during his first time.

“Jaime,” she says, and it imparts her wonder, her want. “Please. Just…ah!”

She does shriek with the faintest surprise as he pushes himself all the way in, but before he can remove himself, her hands fly to his hips, keeping him where he is. The places she once vaguely knew to be hollow, Jaime now makes her aware of the full extent of how hollow she was. Understanding the furrow of her brows, he takes her hand in his, kisses the top. I understand my lady, her knight says, bestowing a small token of affection. It doesn’t hurt, she needs only get used to it, she says that with a small gesture of tidying his beard. He tries to remove himself again, shifting his hips.

She squeezes his hip. “I like you right here.”

He leans to kiss her. They always taste of a certain desperation, but these are slower and softer. They speak of the wonder of the moment, they speak of first. “May I?” he asks, shifting his hips slightly. It’s good. She grants permission, nodding for more. There are kisses and movement of his hips and hers, rising to meet his motions. Partly in water, partly in cold winter air, though she could never be cold with him. With each movement he presses her back further into the grass, makes a cocoon of the grass and moss, seeks to transform her with caresses and kiss after kiss. He chuckles into the crook of her neck, her hands generous in their touches, needy even. His joy is bursting at the seams. He pours it into her. He transforms.

He cries out, mildly surprised, but delighted when she switches their positions so she’s the one on top. “Yes, your favorite view,” Jaime says with another laugh, though it quiets into a hum of pleasure as she sinks atop of him. “Yours too,” she replies, and he answers by throwing his head back, watching her, giving all the confirmation she needs. If she was full before, this position makes her feel fuller still, and she grinds her hips to his both at how good it feels, and her own pride at herself for taking all of him. He holds her hips, one moment passing where he concerns himself with his missing hand, faltering slightly as if worried she’ll grow disgusted and cease the present activities. _Before,_ Brienne thinks, though _she_ has no place or bearing with the two of them, especially when they make love. So she takes his right arm, kisses gently. Beautiful man, brave knight, oathkeeper.

She leans down. He wraps his arms around her. They make love with gentle movements, with kisses, their skin growing fevered. Artfully he sinks his hand between them, rubbing back and forth. Her own ending, quaking and consuming allows Jaime to begin his own. Brienne catches his cries of delight on her lips. He calls her by her name, he calls her with his various little names for her. He calls her love, repeats it until the boat they’re on has come to a gentle sway versus the swept tides of before. Love, love, love, it becomes a song, a song she sings back. Love.

“I call you so many names,” he says, as they continue to sway, Brienne still encased by his arms. “Yet you call me only one. Jaime.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“No. My name is actually Kevan. Now you know my secret Brienne of Tarth.”

She snickers at the jape despite her best self, mildly disappointed when he motions her off. They lay side by side against the bank, the feeling of his spend odd against her inner thigh, though not unpleasant or even foreign. New, but not foreign. Yet he takes her back to the water, stutters when he admits he shouldn’t have spent himself inside her, head bowed in shame.

It turns the tide. “I know that,” she says, shrill. He mistakes her annoyance, she can see that. He assumes her irritations stems from him thinking she has a naivete about matters of the world, but that’s not true. She’s hurt he regrets the possibility of a child with her. She’s not so green however, and she pretends that was what sent her into ire. Since he’s been sharing her bed she’s been taking a certain herb once morning and daily, often in such a way he hasn’t noticed.

“I’m not stupid Jaime,” she informs him.

His face falls. “Brienne, I only—you’ll be shamed, that’s all. I don’t want that for you. It—people talk enough about us.”

“I thought you didn’t care what they say.”

“I…” he sighs. “I don’t want you hurt.”

She’s been hurt all her life. “What’s one more jeer?” she asks him. “Jaime, love, don’t—”

“Ah. That’s what I was going to tell you before. You have no other names for me, only my own. But—”

She crosses her arms. “Should it be Kevan now?”

He laughs, pulling her farther from the bank, holding her, gentle and strong, proud to love her.

“Jaime,” he clarifies. “Call me Jaime, but call me love, if that’s what you think of me.”

“Yes,” she promises. “But—”

He waits. She doesn’t reply, but looks at Ser Jaime, blissful and in love, and happy to bend his life to hers, also knowing he’ll find something that’s all him. He’s happy with only her, doesn’t need a child. Maybe it’s enough.

“We still must learn,” she says.

He takes her hand without an ounce of suspicion. “I wasn’t right, what I said before,” he says. “I think we are rather good at this.”

He takes her to deeper water and proves again how good he is.


	19. Someday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story really got away from me, in the sense that I imagined it shorter, but it has since expanded. anyway, please enjoy! :D

That night, with no pretense or buildup, only a demand of you, they fucked like they fought, kissing and grabbing and switching control. Now, the two of them in a cloud he calls the “afterglow.” Jaime’s words, words he so lovingly repeats every night, are words of greediness. When he eventually, he says, when he gives everything he has to give, and when she receives that everything, he will replenish and renew and give again.

“Be greedy,” he whispers. He has everything to give. He tells her he loves her. She loves it, says the same, but inwardly, she thinks she prefers the love spoken without words, but with his actions. Like taking her hand during dinner, intertwining their fingers. Letting her help him lace up his tunic in the morning, soft glances she can feel from him when they are standing far apart. And then, together, in this afterglow, Jaime tells her “I’m free,” and it’s Jaime speaking _I love you_ a thousand times.

His understanding of the word free makes her contemplate her own understanding of the word, smoothing her hand against the furs, but leaving her body naked and uncovered. Jaime sees freedom to love and be loved, and it’s one she’s taken too, though she feels to love and be loved by Ser Jaime as an honor. She sees freedom manifest as something else entirely, to dance in his arms, carry no burdens. In this vision, they’re whirling, twirling, laughing, happy. She even sees herself with flowers in her hair.

“What are you thinking about?” Jaime asks, entwinning his naked limbs with hers.

“A dress,” she says, somewhat still in the dream.

His brows furrow. “A dress? I thought you didn’t like dresses.”

“Maybe I’d like to try again,” she says, more to herself than to him.

“A merry sight, Brienne the Beauty and the golden lion, dancing at the Winter Solstice.”

The words have a biting edge. Before she can be offended, he apologizes quickly with retributive kisses against her shoulder that more than make up for any offense. He didn’t mean to mock, use a name that others have called her out of cruelty. Yet since Lady Sansa had the not-so-serious-but-serious suggestion for a fete in Winter Town to celebrate the Solstice, he’s heard an awful lot about dancing and drinking and is skeptical it will come to fruition.

“Your Lady Sansa may have convinced her majesty to delay travels to the South for another two weeks, but I sincerely doubt she and her Unsullied soldiers are going to dance the Winter Solstice before marching South.”

Brienne ignores the pause and certain tone before _her majesty_. “Sansa may have a fete whether the queen attends or not,” she says. Since Brienne has been assisting her with the reconstruction of Winter Town, a skip and a jump away from the castle, she’s heard talk of filling the square with music. Perhaps they’d play a song she’d be willing to listen to. Perhaps they'd play a song merry enough for her to dance to.

“I don’t know,” Brienne mutters. “It could be fun.”

“Did the promise of apple tarts win you over?”

While they sound enticing, especially at the current moment, she unbiddenly asks, “Don’t you want to dance, Jaime? Wear a—a blue dress, I suppose, laugh and not care what anyone thinks?”

“I can’t say I ever thought of wearing a dress,” he admits. “Or dancing, to be honest. It’s not particular skill I’ve had, or…want to have.”

“But don’t you think it can be fun?”

He offers nothing else other than a contemplative _mhmmmm,_ at least until she strokes his cheek with her hand. He kisses her palm before nestling closer to her, tickling her sides, making her laugh.

“Blue would be a good color on you,” he decides, done with tickling. “It would match your eyes.”

Regretfully, she has to face the facts of the matter. “No one would make me a dress though. They’d laugh.”

“I don’t think they’d laugh,” he insists, further pushing down furs so he’s not as hot. To counter, she tells him the tale of the dresses they tried to get her to wear when she was a girl, and how when she formally began training, she never wore one again, not until one was forced on her.

“I don’t like orange,” she admits. “Or pink.” They made her wear orange at Harrenhal, and pink was the color of one of her first dresses.

“I think you’d look good in whatever you wore.”

“I think you’d look good dancing.”

He flushes with pride, and she’s proud she’s made him contemplate her notion of freedom before going to sleep. Perhaps he still does contemplate in the morning when they dress for the day, he mentions that having a party may liven things up. Brienne helps him first before he finishes the rest, strapping his sword to his belt and throwing her fur cloak over his shoulders. Jaime may not appreciate a warm room, but he hates cold wind when he helps others in the training yard outside, and his travel cloak doesn’t quite warm him the way he would like. So for the time being, they’ve switched cloaks. She dons his travel cloak, he’s taken to her furred one, and though his cloak is ill fit for Winterfell, she can bear the chill better than her lover. She might have to admit it to him soon, but the cloak smells of him. She’s be hard pressed to describe the scent it to others, other than to say it’s masculine, leather, grass and the hint of snow, but it’s Jaime, and it thrills her, much like his arms around her, or his lips on her skin, or him inside her…

After Jaime fastens his golden hand, he comes to Brienne to kiss her goodbye. She wishes him luck with training. He’s still not sure a one-handed knight is the best instructor, but as she unlaces a loose knot he tried to make to fasten the cloak to tightens it for him, she says "you’re a valued commander,”finishing the knot. She also straightens his beard and tidies his hair. “You didn’t lose that when you lost your hand," she assures. "And you survived the Long Night. Did you forget that?"

"A lot of people did," he points out.

"But there's only one you."

“Bri…”

He blushes. he isn’t used to praise, and she isn’t sure if she should make him used to compliments. His head is already so big. There’s another kiss before their parting, one that makes her wonder if more compliments are in order, one that makes her think she can stand that big head of his. Come with me, she almost wants to tell him, but he’s found a happiness taking over training with Podrick in her stead. Since she’s been assisting Sansa and Jaime’s been in the training yard, Brienne has seen a man outside of his love, a man who needs to help, and who entertains the younger children by showing them pointers with sticks. It’s strange, how the more time Jaime spends away from her, the more she learns about the man and how he’s all love. Jaime is all love in all ways, and he’s planted himself next to her.She tries to take what he gives as he further unraveled from his old self. It won’t be easy, nothing is easy, but as Winter Town reforms and builds anew, so can Jaime, and Brienne.

Wrapped in his cloak, Brienne stands next to Sansa as she goes over parchments of building plans with the master mason of the town’s reformations. Brienne catches the tail end of his plans—says that once the Unsullied march with their queen in two weeks, more housing will be available for their people. Sansa, with a raising of the brow, corrects his note of disdain—the soldiers helped them in the battle against the dead, they may stay as long as they like, they should be welcomed. Brienne offers a nod of agreement when the mason turns away with his parchments--Sansa is right.

"We're making progress," Sansa notes. "It's coming together much more quickly than I thought."

Brienne agrees, observing. It's the middle of the day, and the center square is filled with the sounds of hammers and idle chatter, When the Boltons occupied Winterfell the town was ransacked, and with the oncoming threat of the White Walkers, upkeep of the area fell to the wayside. Yet as Sansa has said before during council, she recalls how Lady Catelyn and her father used to speak of the bustling square during the long winter months, the bakeries, shops, and the homes filled with families. The town was a solace and refuge for others far norther in winter, and with the snow here and lodgings available for families, Brienne is proud of Sansa’s reconstruction, proud she’s helping make a place that can feel like a home. She’s lucky enough to have found hers. She wants the same for others. Others desire to feel happy and safe, as she does. Others should dance too.

“Perhaps we should celebrate,” Brienne says idly, Sansa watching one of workers thatch together the roof of the tailor’s shop. “The town’s reconstruction aligns with the solstice.”

“Something small,” Sansa agrees, “for the Solstice. It may also boost morale for the soldiers marching south to the capitol.” She glances at Brienne, a knowing look in her eyes. “I’m surprised you think so,” she admits lowly. “You’re not one for drinking.”

“Maybe I want to dance,” she posits instead.

“Does Ser Jaime dance?” Sansa asks with a smirk.

“He says he’s not one for dancing,” she replies, almost wistfully. “But if I asked, I think he would.” He always did what she asked, a tradition dating back to their early relationship. Get into the boat, she ordered. He had an aversion to water, one she’s since learned, and an aversion to her, but he got in.

“How is Ser Jaime anyway? His brother told Daenerys he’s enjoying training the soldiers.”

Brienne watches the light snow fall. “Well,” she begins, “I think he was afraid at first, to be himself. Maybe he didn’t even know how—outside of a name or a title. Or…” Brienne shifts. It’s chilly. She bundles up as best as she can in Jaime’s travel cloak.

“…you know who. I don’t want him to do that with me—attach himself like he used to. I want him to be himself. He’s learning, yes, and I….well, I…”

“Are you alright?” Sansa asks, gentle, as Brienne still shifts.

"Fine," she says, though she knows her tone says otherwise.

"Brienne--"

“Maybe he loves me too much.”

The confession startles the both of them. “He loves you too much?” Sansa asks, bemused yet patient, listening like so few do.

"Or…it’s not that it’s too much,” Brienne corrects, chin wobbling. “Or more than I love him. But…"

“Brienne, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

It’s not “nothing,” it’s never nothing. Sansa knows, glancing around before bringing them to a quieter corner from the square. Jaime’s cloak is warmer than she realized, only so because it’s his. Brienne can’t dry away stray tears in it though, so she uses the back of her hand.

“Oh Brienne,” Sansa says, much shorter than her, but not letting that stop her from placing her hand on her forearm. Brienne isn’t used to that either, but she tries to do what Jaime asks, take. He asks her to be greedy, almost every night, but she’s used to ounces. He gives all the time when they’re alone, but she’s not fit for receiving. She’s Brienne the Beauty, and no matter how he undermines his “country boy” appearance, his “house cat” tendencies and a belly that may soon lose the war against wine and desserts, as he fears, he’s Jaime. A knight, beloved, and—

“I will be alright.”

Sansa remains, there and present, and will remain so long as Brienne needs. She takes the moment to recover, Jaime will see her and he’ll ask why she’s blotchy, and it would be a ridiculous thing to tell him. _I’m crying because you have told me you love me._ She can’t. Besides, she shouldn’t cry.

“He loves me,” she tells Sansa. “And sometimes I’m afraid of how. I’m not used…it’s so much—”

“You and my sister. You’re the strongest people I know. And if someone loves you—you were made for it.”

“I’ve been told the opposite my whole life,” Brienne must mention.

“It’s not true,” Sansa insists. “You give me so much, you deserve the same. And Ser Jaime—he wants to. He’s done so much for you, it’s his honor.”

“You shouldn’t even like Jaime,” Brienne says, chuckling, eyes drying.

“He’s well-liked, with those he’s helped in the training yard, even in this short time. It’s what Jon said. He’s not his sister, Brienne, he’s not with his sister…” She squeezes Brienne’s arm. “And, he loves you. You love him too.”

“I do,” she breathes. Oh, how she does.

“Then dance with him, if you want to dance.”

Maybe if she dances she can finally accept all his love. She hopes. She thanks Sansa for everything, embraces her even, and by the time she sees Jaime again, her face is dry of all tears. He doesn’t see her at first, however. In the training yard, he’s on his knees and talking to a cloaked boy, not quite ready for the sword yet. She catches the tail end of the conversation. “Someday soon,” Jaime promises, his eyes kind. Just a week ago, Jaime would have seen her immediately. He was always watching for her when they were away. He’s unlocked more to himself, and he stands as more Jaime than anything else, ready to be only him.

She grins. She hopes she won’t cry again as he pats the boy on the back. “You have a spirit in you, a want to protect. That’s good,” he says. “Don’t lose it. But don’t wish your youth away either, my lady. But if you so wish, perhaps I can have some wooden swords ready for early training”

My lady. Brienne’s taken aback, but sees now, that the short, dark hair was not an indication of anything. Her hair was merely short, not unlike how Brienne herself wears her hair. Brienne watches Jaime watch the girl until she runs past the training yard into her mother’s arms. It’s only when they’re together does Jaime rise, noticing her. He grins. They embrace. It’s in front of a few soldiers who notice and snicker, but for what it’s worth, the two of them have practically fucked in the fields anyway, or at least, that’s what Brienne would have called their duel. It was their language spoken without words, a mounting frustration spilling and turning into love. And it happened in front of everyone.

“That’s Greta. She’s been wanting to hold a sword for a while, says sticks break too easily,” he says with a chuckle.

“Inspiring her, Ser Jaime?” Brienne asks, still in his arms. He spoke so gentle to that little girl, yet didn’t treat her any less because she was a child, or a female.

“It was you first.”

They break, and he motions over to the girl and her mother. He’s starry eyed, shifting between her and Brienne. Brienne sees the girl talk amiably, point at Jaime. He’ll let me fight, she must be saying. And Jaime beams at her unmasker, her discoverer and inspirer.

“She saw you,” he says, “and she thought she’d want to protect, like you.”

They must be a funny sight, Jaime in her fur cloak and Brienne in his, the two holding each other. Someday, Jaime said to the little girl, but Brienne thinks there will be another someday as well. It will be a someday for the two of them, when he worries not of spilling inside her, and she worries not of taking any preventative herbs. Someday has become their new later, a new promise.

Despite her efforts, she ends up crying a little. “Because I’m happy,” she tells him when he asks, and he doesn’t mind. He only holds.


	20. Lessons

Winter Town bustles with activity. In the time since Lady Sansa has made plans to reinstate the center, the place has become less a cacophony of hammers and chatter and more of a town with shops opening and families moving into homes. Jaime hasn’t seen the renewal process of the town like Brienne, but he fancies the town’s restoration as a bit like their own. Night fell for one night, and then came morning. Shockingly, they all found out they would have to begin the process of living again, restore themselves to a pattern of life. As Winter Town restores, so too does Jaime Lannister. He hopes.

Well. Brienne’s happier now that he’s found something to do. He also must admit that helping with training, monitoring with progress, and being able to witness it from those under him make parting from Brienne easier in the morning. In affection Tyrion has called him a dull country boy, but if a dull country boy is no one else but someone in love who makes the best of where he resides, the occupation is not so dull after all. It’s a far cry from a golden lion, a far cry from before, but golden moments aren’t the loud moments, they’re the quiet ones. He treasures his quiet moments. That never used to happen before. And as he catches the sound of the masonry, the idle chatter from the workers who sort planks of wood, thatch roofs, and oversee plans, he searches for one shop in particular. He has a plan.

Still searching, he catches the sight of children playing in the snow nearby. From their talk, it’s a game of make believe they play he gathers. He hears utterings of “knights” and “swords.” His mind shifts to his youth, playing at Casterly Rock, jumping off cliffs while Cersei stood not worrying a single ounce, and thinks he often did the same games of make believe. Of his own children, he can only vaguely remember an enamored Myrcella, fawning over illustrations in a few romances and fancying herself as one of the ladies depicted. Other than that, he didn’t know their dreams or what they wanted to be. He barely knew his dreams. To restore, he must know dreams. His, theirs, anyone’s. But, he knows Brienne’s. That’s why he’s there in Winter Town, why he’s devised a plan.

In the second spent without looking and only recollecting indirectly, he finds what he came to Winter Town for. The tailor’s shop sits squarely in the middle of the town’s center. He drifts inside, bells overhead lightly tingly to announce his entrance to a woman behind the counter, draped behind a collection of various fabrics. Dresses hang on mannequins toward his left, dresses of red, purple, and blue, much more vibrant colors compared to the drab greys and blacks he’s been used to seeing. There’s also a dress of blueish grey on display. If he recalls, Lady Sansa wore a dress in the same color of greyish blue. This must be where she had the dress made. Hopefully, the tailor would be willing to make another.

“Hello,” Jaime greets the dark-haired woman. A stilted moment passes before she asks him what he would like. She has the look he’s accustomed to in the North, all surly and hesitant when it comes to strangers. She’s plump but on the taller side, and her expression isn’t as dour as others he’s met in the training yard, though thankfully they’re used to his presence by now. She waits patiently, notices the golden hand but otherwise tries not to look.

Jaime offers a small smile. “I’m looking for the tailor.”

“Speaking.”

It’s obvious that the tailor would be in the tailor’s shop, but he mistook her for an assistant on account of her younger appearance and youthfulness in her brown eyes. He’s thought of her as a woman but it’s more accurate to say she’s a young woman, maybe even a girl, but he was young once in his duties and it shouldn’t matter. “Good,” he says cheerily, moving over to the counter, keeping his golden hand from her sight. He decides to arrive straightly to the point: he had hopes the tailor would craft him a dress.

She raises her eyebrows “A dress…for you?”

“Oh, not for me,” Jaime assures. “It’s for my lady. Though if she’s happy, perhaps I might have one made for me.”

He flashes a broader smile. She doesn’t even flinch. Jaime clears his throat. “There is a matter, however,” he continues, “one I hope won’t be a bother. You see, my lady is—”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

“You know,” he says, only marginally surprised. He was planning on saying “very tall,” and not accustomed to dresses.

“It’s not uncommon knowledge,” the tailor replies, regarding Jaime’s full appearance. It’s obvious she would have known who he was when he first arrived—not many walk around with golden hands. She’s good at subtlety as she takes him in. Most people would merely allow their eyes to sweep over the infamous Kingslayer’s form without shame. This woman, younger than he by at least a decade, makes a good effort in keeping her observations of Ser Brienne’s lover not so obvious.

“You’re so…normal.”

From behind the counter that separates them, he blinks in dull surprise. Flustered, her cheeks turn pink as she struggles with her words, rationalizes her comment by explaining how all that talk about the Kingslayer and he’s so “normal looking.”

“You almost look like my father before he passed,” she mentions lowly, but Jaime still hears. She must have lost him in the battle, or before. The North hasn’t been a cheery place, but at least there’s been efforts to make it happier. There are many widows, many orphans. He knows better than to prod.

“Brienne doesn’t think I’m normal looking,” he decides to reply in the small silence, hoping she didn’t notice he heard. He may resemble her father, but he certainly isn’t her father. He couldn’t even father his own children.

“If you’re together, I hope not.”

“It’s true,” Jaime declares. “She tells me so every night.”

She laughs, freely and unburdened like Brienne does. Yet from the look on her face, Jaime garners the sound is foreign to her. She hasn’t laughed in a long time, a similar story he’s often heard. She blushes again, almost ashamed, but before Jaime can tell her it’s alright, she shouldn’t be ashamed, she gathers herself.

“Greta’s my niece,” she reveals, straightening her posture. “You made her happy with that wooden sword.”

“It was no trouble. Besides, we have a lot in common.” Indeed, both he and Greta find Ser Brienne astonishing.

“It’s been trouble for me. She’s been poking me with it for a few days now. But you made her happy. Her father, may he rest in peace, didn’t want her playing with swords. ”

Jaime remembers poking his sister with wooden sparring swords when he was young. She always wondered why Jaime had a sword and she only had a needle and thread to learn embroidery. Even still today, some scoff at Brienne for choosing a sword over a needle. But it’s what she chose. Lord Selwyn didn’t restrict her. Jaime would never restrict either. Not her, or anyone.

“I’m sorry about your leg,” Jaime says, sheepish. “But if you would like one as well…”

“No, the shop’s enough for me,” Odile says. “And as a thanks, I’ll make your lady a dress. I’ve had a few orders since Lady Sansa announced the feast for the Solstice. Most people only want clothes taken in, a little tidying and sprucing up and I didn’t really want to another make a full dress, but I suppose if Jaime Lannister wants a dress for his lady…”

“I have her measurements,” Jaime says proudly, thinking how he got them right the first time when he had her armor made for her. “Would it be a bother if she didn’t appear for a fitting? I had armor made and it wasn’t a problem…”

Her eyes are wide. “You want me to make this without her?”

“I want this to be a surprise,” Jaime explains. “The Solstice is going to be grand, and though I’ve never taken her as one who enjoys parties, she seems happy about it. She talked of dancing in a blue dress, and—”

“—you’re going to ask her to marry you!”

He turns speechless. For the third time in their encounter, the tailor flusters, assuring she didn’t mean to make him blush or put him through anything. She even reaches across the counter and pats him on the shoulder. “None of my business anyway…” she says. “Shouldn’t be talking to you like that…”

She runs her fingers through her braid, disheveling the long plait. “I’m used to questions and comments,” he says, attempting to ease her. “And yours aren’t so bad.”

She offers a shy smile. “Well, still. I’m sorry.”

“What’s your name?” he asks, finding it odd he hasn’t asked yet.

“Odile.”

“Ser Jaime,” he formally introduces. “Ser Brienne’s husband.”

“Wait. Really?”

“She chastises me like I’m her husband already,” he explains. “Whether her father blesses a marriage and I don the cloak around her in a ceremony or not, that makes no difference to me. Besides, we would have to dance at a wedding. I’m not fond of dancing.”

“And yet the Solstice arises. There’s often dancing.”

He needs no reminder. “If I can’t dance with her, I can give her a blue dress for the fete. I can’t be everything she’s thought about…”

He sighs, he’s been so much but never enough. Odile tries to reach across the counter, pat him in comradery again. “But I can do this at least,” he announces, standing up straighter before Odile can pity him.

“Ser Jaime, dancing isn’t hard. You—”

“You look ridiculous if you’re not good at it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh it is,” he says, remembering a few snickers from others when he was young. “Now, I can’t dance with her, but I can make a dancing dress. It’s only part of her dream, but…”

He sighs. He wants to give all he can. She wants him to be himself, he can help her be herself too, even in this small way.

Odile taps her fingers against the counter. “What if I show you the basics?”

“It would take entirely too long for me to learn to make a dress,” he rationalizes. “However, I can pay you. Do you mind using that fabric over there?” He points to the mannequin with the vibrant blue garment. “That color matches her eyes, and—”

Odile begins to chuckle. He hopes it’s not because she doesn’t like the color. “No,” she says, stifling her laughter. “I can show you the basics of dancing.”

“You’re a tailor and a dance instructor?”

“Before my mother died, she taught me how to dance. She taught us all, in fact. I’d teach you if you’d like. When I have time though, it would have to be later in the day, but I’d be willing.”

He can’t believe his life. First he thought he would die in the battle against the dead, then he lived. Then he admitted to himself how much he wanted to be with Brienne, and how she brought out the best in him. All this for him to end up dying anyway…several times in her arms, and at least once a day since they started adding another layer to their relationship. Now he stands in a tailor’s shop, and the gracious tailor has witnessed the plight of the man in love who cannot dance, and has offered her services. But it’s not that he can’t dance. It’s that he can’t do it well, and he would look ridiculous learning…especially now.

“Every other evening, I can show you a few pointers” Odile suggests. “It would depend on the work I have, but—”

“But…why?” Jaime interjects, still flabbergasted.

She shrugs. “Extra coin.”

He raises his brows, and she drops the ruse. Yes, extra coin would help, she won’t deny that, but she’s somewhat charmed by Ser Brienne, knight of the seven kingdoms, and her lover, Ser Jaime Lannister, who has painted his lover’s cheeks pink of late, and allowed something in her to blossom.

“I used to see her around Winterfell,” Odile says. “Quiet, never cared that other people spoke ill of her. She was always herself. But she laughs more, when she’s with Lady Sansa. She’s been blossoming, really. I mean it.”

“People are not flowers that blossom,” Jaime says.

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“I know that, I was making a jape.” He laughs. “Now if they were—and they were not part of House Tyrell—it would be me.”

“But you’re House Lannister.”

“I am the blossom,” he corrects, though he appreciates her jape. “I’m not sure when the last time I was myself was. And I will not be needing any dance lessons, or pointers, but I would be honored if you made a dress for me.”

She’s mercurial as he offers his hand. They shake on their deal. Jaime gathers Odile may occasionally put on the dry air of cynic, but she can unmask it at a touching of romance. And as he pulls out his coin bag and compensates her for the dress and rejected offer of dance instructions, she stares at his offerings, mouth agape in dull shock.

“It’s too much,” she says, trying to give it back, but he shakes his head. A dress without the help of it’s intended, only measurements to go off of, and with a bonus offer of dance lessons, it’s what she deserves.

“But you didn’t take the offer, Ser Jaime.”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“It still stands.”

“Well, it will remain so,” Jaime assures, before Odile promises she’d have a sketch ready for the next day, along with a still standing offer. Stubborn, like he is, like Brienne is.

Back at the training yard, Pod jabs Jaime’s side before Brienne can notice, asking with a conspiratorial look if everything went well at the tailor’s shop.

“Better,” Jaime whispers. “Talk about it later.”

“About what later?”

Brienne, hands on her hips, looks ravishing in his cloak. “About the Solstice,” Jaime covers.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of drink.”

He feigns a smirk. “Good.”

He’s played the part well, he thinks as Brienne briefly turns her attention elsewhere. In his ruse, he takes on the part of the bored husband who wants no part in such foolishness as the Winter Solstice. So much so Brienne believes he doesn’t look forward to it at all. It’s devious. He can’t wait to see her face when he shows her Odile’s dress, when she finds out what her part is in the ruse. He wants to dazzle. Dazzling requires surprises.

Pod grins wickedly, Brienne turning her attention back to the two of them. “Would you care for a dance, Ser Brienne?” he asks, and it takes Jaime a moment before he realizes smacking him would elicit questions and perhaps unknowingly have him mention his plans. “Perhaps,” she replies, “but I’d rather you be a gentleman. Both of you.”

When she turns away for the briefest moment, Jaime indulges and smacks Pod. He wonders if he can keep the secret as it is. He doesn’t need squires to drop hints. It’s a concern he thought of when he first had the idea, that he’ll blurt out the plan because he just wants her to be happy and have her dream. He’s worried he’ll shout _I want to dance with you!_ In an afterglow of making love. Then he remembers he can’t dance, and the problem sorts itself, but at least he can give her a dress if not a dancing partner.

But, he makes it through dinner without drawing any suspicion, and he makes it through the night as well, softly before it’s all at once in her arms. It’s good. She’s astonishing, and he asks to hear his name. She gives. She gives again in the morning before they part for the day, Jaime to the yard, Brienne to Lady Sansa’s side. There’s a pocket of time during the day where Brienne attends council with Lady Sansa after overseeing Winter Town, and that’s when Jaime jumps from the training yard, leaving Pod in charge, to the tailor’s shop. Odile has sketched the pattern already, and she asks Jaime for his approval. The sleeves are long and draped, the neckline only to hint and not to fully reveal. It’s beautiful. Jaime suggests a pattern of suns and lions embroidered—extra work, he knows, but he’s willing to compensate.

“Lions and suns?” Odile scoffs. “Suns yes, lions no.”

“What about a lion with a sun as it’s mane?”

That’s even worse, Odile assures, much to his chagrin. “Why must it be lions and suns anyway?” she asks.

“House Tarth. House Lannister,” he admits, begrudgingly so.

“Oh…”

He settles with just suns, partially because Odile is adamant a lion with a sun mane would look ridiculous, but mostly because it was Brienne of Tarth’s wish to wear a blue dress, and he wants her to be her own. Odile shows him the fabric to be used as well, lets him hold it in his hand. Jaime knows nothing of fabrics or anything of the sort, and Odile speaks in such jargon that the only thing he can gather is the dress will keep her warm underneath, but the silk over lay will be immensely stylish.

“The dress will look lovely as it moves,” Odile says, sketching the sun design around the waist. “Perfect for dancing,” Wickedly, she peeks from the sketch. “Are you sure I can’t at least show you the proper frame? Mother always said frame is everything. Besides…” She leans in. “What if she wants to dance the night away, and her brave and gallant knight wants no part of it?”

“She’s brave and gallant herself,” Jaime assures.

“I know that, everyone knows that. She’s Ser Brienne of Tarth, commander of the second flank and Lady Sansa’s sword and shield. But she also wants to dance. And you—you’re a knight. You’re her chosen. Be devoted.”

“I am very devoted. Some would even say too much so.” Brienne would have once, he knows that was the cause of their quarrel. He was only happy they were together. He’s a happier man now, basking in love, collecting an assortment of people who don’t hate him and may even appreciate him. Odile the tailor is one such person, even though she’s pressing him to learn to dance. Thankfully she lets him go without asking again, though Jaime considers something he hadn’t thought of before when Brienne pokes her leg at him as they’re laying in bed. Simply, he considers how simple the want to dance is. She never asked him to love her, it was something that happened. And she didn’t even ask him to dance, she hinted without fully expecting him to do it. A dream, she learning to indulge in, just as she’s learning to greedily take. He wants her to be greedy as she wants him to be him. But is it in him to dance, show off who he loves in such a blatant way? He’s gathered a collection of trinkets and moments of himself he never thought would suit him. Surprises kisses to her cheek, wearing her clothes, and sparring that turns to kissing that turns to spending time together in a hot spring. He’s called her a little minx and exhibitionist on account of her wanting to spar with him in the training yard. She wears her names proudly, names he’s found he loves to give. Only from him.

She toys with his hand underneath the furs. “Jaime, Jaime, Jaime,” she chants, a gentle lull, then “love.” It’s the only other name she calls him, and he can’t decide what he likes better, his name or her endearment.

“Sweetling,” he says back, holding back “wench” for tonight, though he does call her “dear.”

“I’m sorry you’re not happy about the Solstice,” she mutters, his hand still in hers. “But—"

“Why do you think about dancing?” he asks, unbidden. “Why are you so fixated on it?”

“I recall mentioning it once,” Brienne reminds. “Once.”

“But with such gusto, enthusiasm. It’s as if it’s your dream.”

“ _Jaime_.”

Ah, he knows that Jaime. It’s when he’s about to get a stern talking to. Yet it’s not what she delivers, at least not now. She shifts to her side, touches him gently by way of stroking his cheek. “It was the only one I had,” she mutters, and he curses himself. Renly. Of course Renly. It seems to not always, but a lot of times, go back to Renly. How could he forget she danced with him? And more importantly, how could he truly let himself be outdone by Renly Baratheon?

That thought is not what drives him to Odile’s shop the next day when he can slip away. If Jaime must decide, what drove him back was how they made love that night: first on his back, then she on hers before both finishing on their sides, entangled and grasping each other’s hair. He’s also devoted, and yes, he doesn’t want to be outdone by Renly Baratheon. But, there was one thing he figured while making love with his wife but not wife—dancing must be a bit like making love. Like her, he can be an exhibitionist too, dancing in front of everyone, showing. Being happy.

“Just have fun,” Odile advises, straightening his back. Apparently he slouches in frame. “Be yourself,” she says. “Is that so hard?”

He shakes his head, standing taller in frame. No, being himself isn’t so hard to do at all, even when Brienne isn’t around.


	21. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOWe sorry for the longer wait, hopefully the next one won't be so long. Life has been wild lately, that's all!
> 
>  
> 
> this chapter is pretty much all smut btw, hahaha.

He didn’t mean to worry her. He says so when he arrives late for dinner, once again. Late, late, he’s been late so often this week. Brienne didn’t even touch her apple tarts that night, though she wouldn’t have said she was “fretting” over him or where he was when he wasn’t there. Still, she was told she was “fretting,” both by Pod and his brother Tyrion before Jaime casually strolled in and sat beside her, plopping a kiss to her cheek. Truly, truly, she didn’t ever fret when Jaime’s new routine became arriving late. Perhaps a little on this night, the third night, but only the third, and only because one night of a late arrival wouldn’t have been so bad. Two would be slightly worse, but bearable. Three was another matter. Three. Three, like the cups of wine she counted and then drank. The first one Pod poured, and the second one Tyrion poured. The third was her own doing, silly, silly her, and she leaves not a single drop left as Jaime squeezes her hand.

“Late,” she tells him. “Late, late, late. Again.”

“It’s not too late love,” Jaime whispers in her ear, leaving another kiss on her cheek and a kiss on her neck, though that one is done discreetly, so no one else can see. Tyrion sees however—he misses nothing. He smirks and tells Jaime he should take it to their room. Jaime’s eyes are already wide on Brienne, soft as well, with his mouth slightly parted. He sips from his goblet—effortlessly so with his left hand, the other arm wrapped around her waist.

“Gladly,” Jaime says, pulling her further into his frame. “Shall we, sweetling?”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He replies by picking up an apple tart, eating it swiftly and wiping the crumbs from his face and forgoing the stew. Not such a good dinner, but she doesn’t point it out. She hadn’t seen him throughout the day, and selfishly she wants time with him. And what better time to have with him than night, when the world is quiet and they can be effortlessly and seamlessly in love without a comment or quip from anyone else. With that, they rise, saying their goodnights. He grabs her goblet and his goblet, swiping a pitcher of wine as well from the table. The night is chillier than usual, Brienne thinks before they get back to their room. He'll have to warm her, and she gets the feeling he's guiding her more than usual. But it was only three cups, soon to be a forth if Jaime pours a goblet for her. Four. That's more than usual.

Once inside, cloaks off and fire stoked, Jaime pours them wine. Wine, wine, more wine, the fourth, but she drinks her cup dry, even before she sits in her respective chair. Days ago, Jaime had another chair brought in so they could sit together before bed. Sometimes they drank or read, but mostly they sat, enjoying a quiet intimacy of nearness and existing without feeling the need to talk. Lovers can speak without words. Night is when they’re the loudest. The wine is sweet on her lips. She licks them, thinking ahead to Jaime's sweeter unspoken, loud words.

He beckons Brienne to sit, eyeing the empty goblet, though he makes no comment. “Have you wondered where I’ve been?” He asks instead.

She sips from her goblet before she remembers she was done with it already—and she didn’t even realize she had drank so much. Three before, and that was the fourth. Strange it felt like only two.  
“Brienne?”

“…yes,” she stammers, not lying, though she’s found herself more preoccupied with the casual way he sits in the room they’ve made their own, the way he’s leaning back with his legs spread near the fire, sitting sans his golden hand. He’s at ease and that relaxed, and it’s compelling. He’s compelling. Even more so when he smiles, runs a hand through his hair and makes a few strands poke and stick out.

“Why haven’t you asked?” he wonders, unlacing the tunic she tied up that morning.

“It’s your business, perhaps?” she replies, drawn to the patch of hair on his chest, now revealed.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you asked.” He stretches, keeping his gaze on her. “It would have been nice to know I was missed.”

“Jaime, of course you were missed.”

“How much?”

She has no time for games. She kneels before him instead, spreads her palms on his thighs. He’s aroused—she can tell already by the way his left hand squeezes the arm of the chair. She hasn’t used her mouth on him yet. He hasn’t asked and perhaps it’s not something she wants. She’s thought about it, feeling the warm pillar of him in her mouth, tasting the seed of him. She thinks she has no time for games but it amuses her that she’s making a game now.

Still kneeling, she says, “alright silly, tell me where you were.”

His eyes widen. “Silly?”

“Yes,” she mutters. “That’s what you are. Silly.”

“Now,” he covers her hand with his. “I asked you first. How much did you miss me?”

He’s relaxed against the chair, his mouth slightly parted. His eyes are wide. It’s the firelight and her own image, and her hand that’s dangerously near his cock.

“Brienne…”

“Very,” she replies. “So much. So…”

“Ah, Bri—”

She’s possessed by her want and her one single need. He stands when she rises and he greedily takes everything she gives. Kiss after kiss, it’s like a dance.

“Brienne,” Jaime says, her hips straddling him after they fall to the bed. “I think you’re drunk.”

If she is, she’s not sure, he must taste the drunkenness on her lips. “You’re here,” she whispers through kisses, exasperated, together again after too long a gap apart. “Now. Jaime…Jaime.”

“Sweetling,” he says, like syrupy honey, “let’s feel good.”

There’s no strength needed that he must muster. She yields. He’s bested her already without even beginning, but either way, he wants to show off or he wants her to feel his strength, and she’s left with her back on the bed and Jaime Lannister on top of her. She giggles as he artfully unlaces her tunic, helps him take it off. He’s better at taking her clothes off than his—he’s keen to have her do it, keen to see her marvel at each new revealed plane of skin. It’s the same ritual almost every night, except for these past two nights, the same sharp intake of breath when spying upon the first bit of nakedness. It’s the blessed third night that it’s routine again, albeit with shifting roles of leader and follower. She’s glad to follow tonight, gasps with the sight of his bare hips and legs. It’s not that she’s naturally drawn to them, though she does adore to grasp his hips and intertwine their legs, it’s that hardly anyone sees them. Only her. It’s only ever been her, it’s true. He laughs with her, even when they’re making love. He’s not afraid to talk to her, ask. He’s never asked so much before, but what strikes her is how little the asks are. _Hold me harder, kiss me harder. Squeeze me there, touch me there. Anything, anything, make me feel glorious, Brienne, Brienne, sweetling, my knight._

He’s hard against her thigh, leaking and satiating himself by rubbing against her skin, if that satiation only goes so far. As for herself she slides a hand down her thigh, a soft preamble, before the delicate pad of her finger circles her clit. “Oh,” Jaime says, entranced, his eyes moving from her hand to her face, unsure where to keep his gaze trailed, and captured by bliss. He bits his lip, moving her hand aside. He’s skilled. So skilled he knows different sorts of pleasure, like how to draw it out, or how to make it sudden and quaking. So skilled he knows the right time to do either. This time it’s quick and sudden, Jaime allowing only a brief indulgence of marveling at her writhing below, before leaning down, kissing her. “Yes,” she says, welcoming him in her arms, entreating his entrance, “yes,” she says. The feel of him is the feel of a pillar, full and satisfying without even the slightest movement. It’s not that it feels good—though it does, yes he feels fucking good, but it’s his weight on top of her, encasing and creating a protective cocoon. She’s so used to protecting, he makes her remember what it feels like to yield, if she ever knew. It’s a discovery then. They discover together. By the way he talks to her, whispers in her ear as he moves. She knows the truth. They’re more intimate than anything of the past, more attuned to each other, keeper of promises singing a song of oaths, creating their love song.

“Silly Brienne,” he whispers. “Beautiful, gold…” He kisses her cheek, her lips as he moves. “Love.”

Beautiful, he says. Gold. Love. It’s what he sees. She sees Jaime, even if she can’t quite see as he’s on top of her and they’re making love, but she feels him. Not only inside, but all around. The strength of him, the power and the part of him that’s all love, all Jaime. Even the burdens. Would he be so adoring if he didn’t carry his burdens? Would he ask for forgiveness as they make love if he didn’t have burdens? Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. Her Ser Jaime. She cups his face in her hands, and kisses him as he sighs in pleasure, eager to spend inside her. His seed is warm inside her, so much so her fingertips drum against his fevered skin. He knows what that means: stay here. He couldn’t leave anyway, not without giving again. She kisses before he can bemoan himself for not sinking his hands between them during, but he does so then. Her second climax is soft and rolling. Kisses capture satisfied cries. Those kisses are the fleck of the tip of tongue, briefly against hers, the slide of her upper lip captured between his. Then it’s holding and indulging in being connected and intertwined, just as they always were but never celebrated this way until that first time. She must keep him pinned to her, she knows. They’re alone, finally after a third night, a wide stretch of night ahead of them. That’s another thing she’s learned—how wonderful night is, how lovely the after is, with holding and kissing and whispering. After making love, they sink into a loudness of lovers.

Brienne sighs as he withdraws, moving to his side of the bed. She follows him and falls into his welcoming arms, smoothing back disheveled hair and beard. He gazes with a look she can only call longing, though why he longs, she doesn’t know. She’s his.

“Jaime…” she mutters, one of her fingers dragging through the sparse hair on his chest. “Gold.”

“Gold?”

“You said when…you know.” She chuckles. Spend still trickles down her thigh, if only just. She has a mind to wipe it away, but likes the reminder. “What did you mean?”

“Oh, I…well…”

She humphs, displeased with the stammering. She knows already, or at least can surmise, but something clutches her and grabs a hold, begs her to demand so she may hear. “Jaime.”

She peeks at him. He knows that look in her eye. “Well, you…look like you’re bathed in gold, sometimes… when we’re here, in bed,” he stammers. Then something happens, where it all clicks.. He succumbs to the romance, grinning lopsidedly and like the man in love he is, laughing as he falls. “Did you know that?” he asks. “Did you know you glow? It’s beautiful.”

She smirks. “I must always be bathed in gold, to you. You must find me beautiful always, don’t you?”

“Of course sweetling,” he answers indulgently without the faintest trace of annoyance—not anymore, not ever.

“And I am neither boring or tedious, correct?”

He speaks with a mock severity. “Only when you make statements like that.”

She rests her cheek against his beating heart, finds the hair on his chest utterly fascinating. “You’ve been absent from dinner these past few nights. Most of the time, anyway. What has Ser Jaime been doing, I wonder? Is he off slaying dragons? Off riding his horse? What a happy horse he must be, that bears your weight.”

“I’m actually not sure she likes me very much,” he admits with a grin.

“Oh, she must, she must,” Brienne says. “But why have you been gone? know it’s not because you dislike my company…you rather like it in here, where everything is so gold. Perhaps I’ll keep you here, and you’ll never leave. Never, never, never, never…”

“Brienne…”

“Jaime.”

“Brienne…you are tipsy!”

She rises, flummoxed. “Jaime! I am no such thing!”

“Is the room spinning?”

In fact, he does appear to be wobblier than usual. “You’re much more attractive than usual,” she attests, “but perhaps that’s because I haven’t seen you so often.”

He chuckles, holding her closer. “You are tipsy my lady, whether you think so or not. Don’t you remember? I told you the first night where I was. I was in Winter Town, helping with a few of the buildings, and I said I’d be there the next few nights, and try not to miss me too much. I see you did miss me, but maybe not too much.”

“I didn’t know you were a carpenter.”

“I’m not. But I quite like a few of the people there. Do you know Odile? She’s the tailor. Quite funny. Greta, you know— the girl who finds you utterly fascinating— is her aunt. They lost most of their family during Winterfell’s occupation. Poor dears. They’re trying to begin again…something I can relate to, perhaps. Her shop needs some touching up, so…”

“Jaime…” She holds him close. “You are sweet!”

She takes his face in her hands and kisses every little part of his face. He snickers and scrunches his nose as she continues on in her quest to leave every part of him touched, sometimes doubling and tripling over the same spot, particularly parts she likes, like the tip of his nose and sharp curve of his jaw.

“I also thought she could make me a new coat,” he says as she continues. “You know, because you’ve been complaining about wanting yours back.”

“No,” she suddenly decides. “I like you in my coat.”

“You do?”

“Yes silly. Why would you think otherwise? Now kiss me again!”

As it turns out, come morning, she finds she was tipsy during the night. Or at least, that’s what her aching head indicates. She groans when Jaime wakes her up, nurses her with warm milk and kneading her shoulders. He mends her with kisses, and she asserts she’ll never do it again.

“Sure love, sure,” Jaime says, laced with sarcasm.

“And Jaime…”

They sit side by side in their bed. She grabs a hold of his shoulders tightly, imploringly. “I promise love,” she begins, “it’s not that I think you have to be with me always during dinner, especially since you’ve made so many friends here. But…” She sighs. “I’ve missed you being there,” she admits, peaking at him in her shame. “That’s all.”

He kisses her forehead and holds her close, and she understands he wants her to feel no shame.

“I love that you miss me,” he says. “I promise, we’ll make it up again tonight.”

So they do that night, and she’s every bit as enthusiastic, every bit as merry to have him over and under her, and there is no drinking required to be drunk off of Jaime, and drunk in love.


	22. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait and for the shorter chapter. things will be rolling in the next one! :D

When Odile shows Jaime the dress, finished and ready for Brienne to don it, he reframes from touching it. Odile asks why he seems so shy—he had been getting over his reluctance in regards to his dancing, and he’s paid her handsomely for her to craft his lady a dress. He shouldn’t be ashamed to touch what he asked of her and what he paid for. And yet…

But is it a sight. It’s beautiful. “It’s sturdy,” Odile promises as well, still encouraging him to touch it. “I know you want to,” she says, proud, and proud she should be of her artistry. “The fabric is hardy and will last,” she asserts, but he doesn’t tell her the truth. His hand feels too soiled to touch such a creation, so he settles for a delicate finger, outlining one of the many sun designs Odile stitched onto the dress. He may have seen the sketch and part of the process, including Odile sewing up two bits of cloth that would be the dress’s skirt and sleeves, but the final product—even hanging on a too small mannequin that isn’t at all accurate to Brienne’s frame— is nothing he could have imagined. He’s sure of that fact. Odile weaves stories through fabric. The sleeves are long and will protect against the chill. The neckline, a deep but not too deep V, is outlined with golden trim. Yet the skirt is what catches the eye. Odile has taken strands of the sea and sky and woven them into a dress, and painted small golden rays of suns all along the waistline. The same rays line the bottom hem, and she promises that when Ser Brienne dances under the moonlight, she’ll spin sunlight.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jaime says, nearly stuttering, awestruck. He’s always admired the craft of the blacksmith and the armorer, never considered the artistry of the tailor, until now. The blacksmith and armorer may protect, but tailors, especially Odile, must make dreams a reality.

She blushes, fingers running through her braid. “Ser Jaime, the dress is for your lady,” she says. “If she favors it, then come and thank me. I— _oh!_ ”

Her surprise transforms into delighted laughter as he wraps his arms around her and lifts into the air. Akin to the grand sweep she’s showed him in lessons, as a grand flourish to finish any dance, she’s still chuckling as he sets her down. He embraces her again and plops a kiss on her cheek. Her blush deepens.

“I…hope she feels beautiful,” she says. “And like herself.”

Like herself. Jaime eyes the dress with longing, sees the two of them attempt to dance while the skirt moves about her ankles like the sea’s waves. Odile asks what’s wrong as he dares not touch again, and he says simply, “I have had a dress made for her.”

“She longed for it,” Odile replies.

“Ah, but it was I who asked for it made,” he states, mind spinning. “What will she think?”

“Hasn’t she said she wanted a dress? Hasn’t she said she wanted to dance in a dress? You’ve given her a dream.”

“Part.”

“Most,” she corrects. “The rest is up to you. But…” She winks. “You’re not half bad at the dance, Ser Jaime.”

He repeats the name she’s called him, _Ser Jaime_. “Why do you call me that?” he asks. In the time they’ve known each other and the time he’s stepped on her toes, he figures only “Jaime” suffices. He tells her so, yet she has a twinkle in her eye.

“The title was given to you, wasn’t it?”

“By Ser Arthur Dayne, yes,” he muses and remembers. Remembers again like he remembered the night he knighted his lady. They are good memories indeed. His knighting, his carrying the tradition to his lady. He doesn’t recall that memory as much when his mind turns idle as he does other memories of Brienne, memories such as making love to her. He must prefer to save the memory of that night, for special occasions.

“Then it suits you,” Odile proclaims. “Ser Jaime.”

“For you, Jaime suffices.”

For the third time, he has made her blush. “But—”

“Ah,” he states, holding up his hand. “She often only calls me Jaime. So does my brother. They know who I am. So do you.”

“I—”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “No stammering my lady. You taught me how to dance. Or at least feel not as bad as I once was. Jaime. Only Jaime suffices.” He grins. “Now, think my skills are up to par?”

Blushing, blooming, Odile tells him she thinks so, and she wouldn’t lie or lead him wrong. The rest, however, is up to him, not Ser Jaime, but Brienne’s Jaime, who has given her a dress and a dream, and hopefully another part of her.

Odile packs up the dress in a blue package adorned with a bow, and Jaime, still convinced he should wait to bring Brienne the dress until the Solstice draws closer, drops it underneath their bed before returning to the grand hall. He even considers a ruse, putting on a masquerade that the dress was given by an anonymous donor. But he’s the only one who would rightly know her measurements, that story would arouse suspicion. Instead, he must be clear what his intentions are. _I give not to make you fit, and not to make you something you’re not. I did it for your dream. I want it to be ours._

He feels her before her arms are around him, palms pressed against his elevated heart. She has to stoop a little, the bench he occupies leaves him a bit low on the ground, and it’s easy to not forget her height. But she buries her head in the fur cloak she lets him wear, nuzzles her cheek against his akin to an affectionate kitten.

“Hello Jaime,” she mutters, and she sounds a little in love. Unabashedly, a lot in love, he answers: “hello Brienne.”

He feels her smile as he leans against her, putting his hand against hers. He closes his eyes, uncaring of who sees. “I had two glasses of wine before I saw you,” she mutters, cheek to cheek with him.

He smirks with the recollections. My, she was breathtaking with a few drinks in her system, pink coloring her cheeks and laughter in her eyes. He wanted to show her he was strong enough, and she let him. She’d let him do it again.

She pulls him closer, but recoils suddenly. She wears her armor—the armor he had made for her—and she must think it’s too hard against him and he prefers her soft. “No,” he says, keeping her where she is. “I like you here.”

“To let them see?”

She’s learned that of him, that he likes it when others see. Certainly now in the hall, they can see, they can all see. They can say anything they want of the happy, merry, man in love, because he can be in love. Yet this time to Brienne, he tells a different tale that’s just as true.

“Because I feel safest here,” he says.

Her answer is a soft hum, a tune he doesn’t recognize. “What song do you sing?” he asks, and she replies it’s nothing truly—just an idle tune. He remembers when they were together for the first time, captured by Bolton’s men. Over, and over, and over again was the same reframe of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” yet he never associated it with Brienne or their time together, when he heard it again. He hears it again, _she kicked and wailed, the maid so fair, But he licked the honey from her hair…Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air…And off they went, from here to there, the bear and the maiden fair._

He smirks. How sweet the honey is from her hair.

And there it is. The closest thing the two of them have to a song. But it’s alright. They can come up with their own love song.

Brienne sits next to him, and though some closeness is diminished, she takes his hand in hers to not fully make their contact disappear. “You wear the armor well, my lady,” Jaime says, admiring her.

“It was yours,” she answers. “You got the measurements right.”

Indeed, it’s protected her well, even when he couldn’t be there. He gave her the armor in hopes it would protect, and now he brings her a dress to dream. It’s a lover’s gift, a a more intimate gift than even the fleck of his tongue against her, or the feel of her hand gripping his hair in desire to keep his head pined between her thighs. It knows her idiosyncrasies, knows her dreams. And yet—

It is a dress. She’s been given one before, in less romantic circumstances. To make her fit. Jaime doesn’t want her to fit. He wants her to be herself, in a way maybe she hasn’t been able to before. There are so many other, undesirable things he would do long before he would hurt her. He swears it.

“Brienne,” Jaime says, after they make love. The package, he fears, may begin burning underneath their bed for all he’s thought about it—but it’s not the right time to give. He’s waiting for the right time. She curls closer to his side, unabashed, unafraid to be vulnerable. Yet it’s not weakness, he reminds himself. It’s brave to be vulnerable. The best people always have a knack for turning vulnerability into a religion, a quest, a need. That’s his Brienne, with him. Only him.

“Jaime? Are you alright.”

He bluffs by asking what he’s had on his mind since leaving Odile’s and since before even, if she’s ever been made to fit into something she’s not.

“Not anymore,” she assures.

“Would you tell me if I did?” he asks, hoping he won’t regret it when he finally gives her Odile’s dress.

“I trust you. Yes. But Jaime, you wouldn’t. Not you. Never you.”

“Bri—”

“No, not ‘Bri,’ not tonight,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Just us. Please.”

“I would never make you fit,” he promises, even so. “I want—”

“You want me. I know. I want you too. All of you. Now please, kiss me, call out my name, do both, do everything. This is how we fit. I know it.”

Needy, demanding, vulnerable, it’s everything that night, like all their other nights. They should be restless for how much and what all they do, yet he’s never had such a calmer sleep when he does fall. This night however feels less calm, for he harbors a secret. The secret won’t burn a whole through their bed, but he plans to wait for the right time, when he knows that she will know, without any doubt, that he gives her a dress not to make her fit, but to give her a dream.


	23. Intuition

Another day. The solstice draws closer, and though Jaime is strangely merry, and dare she say…almost excited for the fete, Brienne has her mind elsewhere, to the “final war.”

The final war. It sounds almost too dramatic, but that’s what the dragon queen calls the final assault to King’s Landing. Only through subliminal narrowing of the eye and coded statements does Brienne know that Sansa managed to convince her to delay a march south, to the one who resides in the Red Keep. Daenerys also doesn’t like Jaime, not at all. Sansa has told Brienne that, but frankly she wouldn’t expect her to like Jaime. Sometimes Brienne doesn’t like Jaime. (Only a jest, of course. She mentioned it one night with such severity he took it so seriously he appeared as though she had struck him, and she worked diligently to make it up to him.) Daenerys however merely tolerates him for Lady Sansa’s sake, and even that toleration only goes so far. The bigger truth of the matter is Sansa tolerates Jaime because Brienne tolerates Jaime. Brienne of course knows it for what it is, and so does he. Love and building a life and an existence. Toleration. It’s nowhere near the two of them anymore. But no matter how one phrases it, no matter how deep Brienne loves Jaime, the bonds he has with others are delicately forged and must not sway. It’s a testing time. Jaime is doing his best.

Sansa is eager to see how this all will end, and waits for the day Daenerys leaves for the South. She wants a victory for Daenerys, but wants the North most of all to be safe and secure. Brienne is quiet in her curiosity, afraid if she’ll say anything, Daenerys will ask if Ser Jaime knows what her plans are if _she_ refuses to surrender. It’s not pleasant. The truth is, eyes do turn to Ser Jaime as the day approaches.

If it happens…when it happens…by all rights, Jaime would be somber. Yet in these days, he hasn’t even expressed worry. Strangely so. He’s more interested in the fete, if Brienne can believe it. She wants to tell him she would understand if he was hurting, in fact she’d expect it, but what sort of box would she be unlocking, if she mentioned her name? Even in Brienne’s mind and in her thoughts the name is a curse, a poison.

She sips her wine, waiting for him in their room, drowning out the poisoned thoughts, wanting Jaime. He’s with his brother tonight, said he would be back a little later. He called his brother his true family, and Brienne. I give my fealty to them, to those here, Jaime said to the dragon queen. Then later that night when they were alone, he promised her his oath belonged to her. Family he says, family he continues to make in the days, a comradery growing with the young boys and older children who’ve taken to his words as well as those in Winter Town, yet he’s adamant about keeping her without child. She tells herself it’s for practical reasons. They’re unmarried and they have jobs to do. So long as his sister lives, it’s unsafe. And yet there is a big expanse after the “yet,” after all the rationalities have been run threw, that she can’t quite place. She only knows there is a “yet.” Uncertainties should frighten her. This one fills her with wonder.

Another sip of wine. It’s quiet without Jaime. He chatters often in the expanse of time before sleep, but often as well he lets the sound of silence fill the room, but that’s a louder silence than the silence she experiences alone. The fire crackles, and she sticks another log into the flames, watches them consume. She yawns. Taking her goblet, she shuffles over to the bed and finishes. Already finished? Enough you, she thinks, dropping it onto the bedside table. She chuckles to herself when she finds her aim to be poor, and the goblet falls to the floor, clanking against stone and sliding underneath the bed. Kneeling, she retrieves it, but not before noticing the blue package underneath.

She didn’t put it there. And if she didn’t…

What has Jaime done? She has a thought, and a loud one at that. Not that she knows exactly what it is, though she has her suspicions, but in the time since she and Jaime have taken to each other’s side and molded into each-other’s lovers, an intuition she never knew existed within blossomed. A gift, he has given me a gift. But what occasion is he waiting to give it? He’s been unusually excited about the solstice. Is that what he has planned? A gift to give her on the solstice?

Her heart leaps again. And then, and then...she knows what lies beyond the great expanse of “yet.”

It can’t be possible. Not until the fighting is over would he suggest donning her in a cloak. But he rushes into things, like fools rush into things. If he’s a fool then she’s a fool, because she would say yes if he asked, everything else be damned.

The doors are heavy, the walls are heavy, yet when her intuition blooms, a sense arises that he’s here, she scrambles to her feet and onto the bed. The door opens and he stumbles in, just as she pulls the fur blanket over. He sighs even before he tells her hello. He waves at least, beams when he catches a glance of her in bed, but makes none of his usual comments about the room’s temperature or quips about the goings on of the day. She pats down his side of the bed in lieu of asking him to come to bed.

He hesitates. She should have known then, but she waits with some hope that he will just come to bed, they’ll kiss, do other things than kiss, and all will be well. But he looks down in shame, speaks a soft, “I’m sorry,” and places his hand on the door. Why would he leave again?

She rises from the bed, calls his name, obvious in the deep offense that was taken.

“It’s not…it’s not you,” he says, worried suddenly “I…” She sees he has a great expanse of “yet.”

“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Everything was fine this morning…better than fine. Jaime, what’s happened to you?”

“Forgive me.”

The door opens. She outstretches her hand. He looks at it as if wanting to take it, but pleads with her again, how sorry she is. She doesn’t want apologies. She wants him to be here.

“What’s in the package?”

She blurted it without thinking. She doesn’t regret it, even when his eyes widen. He curses. He turns a thousand shades of red. “Wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” he mutters. “Not now. Not after tonight. Not tonight.” Yet still to Brienne, there is no significance in tonight, it was just another night to her until he came into their room troubled and teetering over a precipice that he can’t give name to. Not to her anyway, his lover. She reminds him of that fact.

He breaks the distance between them, takes her hand. His brow is covered in sweat, and his clammy hand that’s him and not Lannister gold shakes in both of hers. He shakes. He offers a simple “Bri.” She is wordless, save for a kiss to the top of his hand. A silent signal, wait for me. She has an idea.

She goes to the dresser, tucks on his linen shirts and breeches under her arm before slipping on house slippers and a cloak over her shoulder. She’d take him outside, to the hot spring, but instead elects to take him to the bathing quarters, only a stone’s throw away from where they sleep. In the time it takes her to walk him there, she asks “where did you plan on going, Jaime?” He doesn’t reply for a moment, before finally admitting he would have taken a ride.

“Now?” she asks, bemused, holding the door to the bathing quarters. “It’s nighttime. Besides, you said your horse doesn’t care for you all that much. Can you trust her to take you somewhere now? The night is dark, and cold. Here…with me…”

Laughter is in his eyes, but he doesn’t chuckle. She wants him to finish the poem, it’s warm with you, but “I wanted to think,” he says instead, serious. With his eyes downcast, he can’t see her face fall. She thinks of turning back, but she wouldn’t let him go to bed sweaty or with greasy hair. Lions should take care of their manes, and even if he’d have the mind to call himself the housecat as he often does, she’d tell him even the humblest housecat maintains pride in their appearance.

Either way, she lets him do his thinking as she draws him a bath in the large wooden basin. When she first came to Winterfell she used the baths sparingly, afraid she would overstep if she was found too often. Lady Sansa has since quelled and alleviated her fears. She belongs and because she belongs, so does the man that shares her bed. There’s no shame in drawing him a bath, in keeping him with her.  
When the water is at the appropriate level for bathing, he makes a comment. “Come to bathe me, have you?” he asks, a hint of the jovial, merry Jaime she’s accustomed to.

She’s coy. “If you’d like.”

“Perhaps.”

“I know that’s a yes.”

There’s a hint of a smile. She admits she’d not have him come to bed covered in sweat. Besides, when she was a girl, a bath would usually make her feel better. He understands, begins to see a method in her madness, and rather than simply follow along, begins to indulge her by beginning to strip. She helps him. It’s not new for them, as she often helps him as he fumbles to unlace his tunics and lace up cloaks, but she feels as though if someone were to walk in on them, they would walk into something sacred, something that should belong to only them. The feeling increases tenfold when she removes the golden hand, lets it fall on top of his clothes. She’s never felt that way before, not in anything they have done. Not fighting, or fucking or making love, but this…Brienne sitting by the basin, pouring water over his head, kneading his shoulders, unraveling the burdens of the day and beyond. Taking the soap and working it through his hair. He closes his eyes, and if she didn’t know better, she swears he’s purring. It makes her laugh. He asks, and she calls him her housecat.

“Should get in with me,” he mutters, lazily. “You know.”

“Had a bath earlier.”

“You can have another…”

“Tell me what happened.”

He sighs at the serious, not very seamless turn. “Bribery doesn’t become you.”

She grabs the pitcher and pours water over his head in retaliation. He spits out water and rubs his eyes, slicking his hair back. He makes no comment but glares, yet the way is much more of a playful way than earlier.

“Jaime.”

“You didn’t, look in the package, right?”

She thought she made it clear that was the case, but she assures him she didn’t look. She only saw it under the bed when the goblet fell.

“Drinking more wine?” He chuckles. “Keep it up and you’ll drink all the wine in Winterfell.”

“You’ve been drinking too.”

“I told you I would.”

“Jaime.”

It was a different Jaime than the one before. It was less playful and more severe, more knowing. Knowing that, Jaime sighs, resting his head against the rim of the basin. No prodding, her intuition tells her. Not yet.

Her hand runs through his damp hair. The other reaches for his hand. His eyes closed, resigned and in the water, he speaks of his brother.

“Did something happen when you were with your brother?”

“No.”

So he claims. But there’s a fear in his eye, a telltale shift in the water.

“Jaime.”

“Tysha.”

She blinks at the name. “Tysha? Who’s Tysha?”

The story spills, that of a girl who Jaime hired for his brother long ago, so his brother could fall in love. They were married even, until their father found out and the truth was revealed. Except there was a lie Jaime told, a lie he’d been holding onto all these years.

“I thought it was alright,” he said. “I thought it could be alright. I didn’t think he still thought of her. But he mentioned her after the battle, and then again today before—”

“Before what?”

“Before I left,” he says, too quickly.

He looks into her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she states.

“That it wasn’t a sham,” he’s quick to respond. “Tysha loved him. Really. My father ordered me to tell him I hired her and the bandits to make it look like he saved her and she had fallen for him. But it was no lie. She loved him, she loved him, and he still believes the lie. Brienne, Brienne…what would he say if I told him? He says he’s happy that I’m happy, but if he knew…”

He squeezes her hand. She thinks of so many things. She could tell him that that’s his brother, he would understand Jaime was young, blinded by loyalty to his father. It was years ago. _You’re so much older now,_ she wants to tell him, though he feels younger sometimes when he’s with her.

She opts to hold, to be there for him, to pour water over his still slightly soapy hair again, then help him dry and dress. No words, only the mundane ease and simplicity of the ritual of the moment. When they do hobble back to their room, and she delicately puts him to bed, still with words unsaid, she caresses his cheek. He stares at the ceiling, worlds away, but he acknowledges the hand on his cheek by placing his on top of it, keeping it there. That’s Jaime, the one that holds onto the little gestures. He treasures those the most.

“I wanted to show you the dress tonight.”

His eyes soften as he peers at her. Not a cloak in the package, but there’s only a small emergence of disappointment before she recalls a conversation with him, about a longing to dance, a longing to wear a dress. She embraces him, curls herself to his frame before he can admonish himself for giving away the surprise. He does manage to chide himself a little before Brienne can kiss him, mouthing about how he wanted it to be a surprise, but he couldn’t help but lament his luck and downtrodden mood. With the secret out, he says he paid Odile the tailor to make a dress—one that is neither orange or pink—but one that’s a good color for Brienne. He worried so much she’d see the dress and think he had it made it make her fit.

“I should have known that you would know,” he laments. “I know you so well.”

He does. It’s the same for her. She knows him so well.

They lay together, the package below them. “Would you like me to try it on?” She herself admits that her curiosity, and splendor, has piqued. Frankly, she’d like to try it on and see what her man has envisioned for her to wear for the Solstice, but she has an idea, one that almost brings recollections of a story she must have heard long ago.

“Meet me at the Solstice,” she whispers. “I’ll be the one in the blue dress.”

When she rises to meet his eyes, he’s quietly stunned. “How…did you know?”

“Intuition,” she replies. “And Jaime…” She kisses his cheek. “It’s hurting you, I know. Tell him the truth.”

“He’d hate me.”

He says it too easily. “That’s not you anymore,” she promises.

He goes to bed eased, because he’s believed, and falls asleep halfway through stories of how she’ll be the most radiant one there the night of the solstice, wearing her blue dress. She falls not too long after him, grateful to have an eased an uneasy mind, loved, and beaming at her given dream, not given yet, but close. She even convinces herself that’s it, and there was nothing more that happened that night that Jaime didn’t tell her.


	24. Spinning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I am sorry for the delay, but here's the newest chapter. Please enjoy! :)

It’s early. It’s why Brienne isn’t there yet. It’s what Jaime tells himself, but the fact of the matter is she’s usually quite punctual. _Meet me at the Solstice, she said. I’ll be the one in the blue dress._

He’s the one in the blue doublet and golden hand, standing by a lamppost with a goblet of wine. The doublet is curtesy of Odile, while the cloak is curtesy of Brienne. She claims she’ll have one made specifically for him one day, perhaps soon. He both looks forward to and dreads the day she presents him with a new cloak. While it would be finely made, only her cloak smells like her.

“That cloak is horrendous.”

The comment stings in a way that it shouldn’t. It’s only Bronn that says it. Bronn, who should mean less than the dirt underneath Jaime’s feet. Though they have a history together, though Bronn knocked Jaime away from the dragon fire and pulled him up to the surface after they feel into the water, his words should mean nothing.

Still, Jaime instinctively pulls his cloak closer. He has a thousand replies, thousand quips and a thousand messages he wants to tell Bronn to tell his sister, and even more he has solely or Bronn. But Jaime says nothing yet everything in a hard and ghostly stare. Bronn stares back, challenging and hard.

It all breaks with a loud, obnoxious snort. “Didn’t mean it,” Bronn retorts. “I know its hers.”

Jaime’s answer is more silence. He sips from his goblet.

“Well?”

 _Well._ All that and all Bronn can say is _Well_. He storms in, claims I knew you were fucking her, calls him and Brienne a pair of tall, blonde toffs and worms Highgarden out of Tyrion. Jaime’s still not sure he can procure it…Tyrion’s charm on Daenerys is dwindling and even Jaime, who would have better reason to trust Bronn than Daenerys, wouldn’t give him Highgarden. Out of respect to Olenna, if nothing else. Then again, he still recalls their last conversation. He still thinks the same holds true.

Either way, Jaime doesn’t give Bronn the satisfaction of another reply.

It’s enough for Bronn scoff. “Silent treatment eh?” he retorts. “You’re acting like a bloody woman. You—"

“You really only care about money, don’t you?”

Bronn’s eyes widen. “He speaks!” He exclaims. “And here I was, thinking you wouldn’t—"

Before he can prattle on, Jaime takes ahold of his sleeve. They slip toward the back, and its lucky more people have begun filtering in the area, making noise and talking so not to catch the two of them. Winter Town bustles before the dancing begins, and for once there’s something to celebrate. There’s no time to see what ails others, it’s only the now that matters. Jaime seizes the opportunity. Despite it all, Bronn gibes that someone was bound to have seen, and they’ll likely think the two of them have gone to fuck in the back.

“I can’t believe you trusted Cersei,” Jaime spits, ignoring the comment, not even mentioning the other he made. He’s heard plenty of people already wonder who’s the man and who’s the woman in his relationship. He’s long past caring—if he ever did.

“I didn’t trust her,” Bronn asserts, standing straighter. “I knew—know, she’s going to lose. So—”

“So you came here to haggle a better deal out of us. Tell me. Say Daenerys loses. Or say she wins and decides a mercenary sellsword be nowhere near Highgarden. You should have never taken that offer. You—”

“Should risk staying in the city while it burns to the ground?”

“You don’t know that.”

“Your sister isn’t winning,” Bronn states flatly. “Either she surrenders the city—which she won’t, or it gets burned to the ground. We both know what’s going to happen.”

It isn’t the point. Jaime knows what’s likely going to happen to his sister, and though he hasn’t come close to accepting it—because frankly he’s not sure if he needs to anymore—the point is, Bronn stood ready to kill him. It might be the pretense he’s putting on, that he can’t believe he took a deal from Cersei, but that he was ready to threaten Jaime and his brother at arrow point to get more gold.

“You knew me,” Bronn says, a retort to Jaime’s silent thoughts. “You always knew.”

He looks to the ground, Bronn distancing himself. Well. Yes. Perhaps, perhaps he knew. It doesn’t make it lessen.

“Ser Jaime?”

The soft voice brings him back from something or other. Jaime regards Odile with a fond smile before leaving Bronn to join the fete with her. He doesn’t look back. Odile asks, but he shakes his head and diverts with a comment on her beauty of the evening. It’s not a lie, not anything he only said to divert. She’s dressed simply but elegantly in a grey dress, her hair pinned at the top of her head. The sleeves are long and the square neckline is dainty. She asks again who that man was, the two of them off to the side as Lady Sansa announces the feast, and Jaime replies the man was “someone from the past,” but leaves out that he thought the man was once one of his friends. Once Lady Sansa finishes her speech, welcoming the new start and wishing Daenerys and her soldiers well, the dancing begins. Jaime asks Odile for a dance as the lute plays, and though she’s reluctant at first, he says his brave instructor should be honored with a dance. She blushes, but gives him his hand. He strings her along to bells and drums and lutes—just as she showed him. They laugh. They revel. He forgets for a moment.

“I wonder if Daenrys Targaryen will grace use with her presence,” Jaime wonders aloud. “She should. But I’m sure that—”

“Ser Jaime.”

He’s turned red, but not from the dancing. He sighs, still swaying Odile. He admires her rigid severity even as the music calls for a fluidity in the body, just as she taught him. But hard eyes demand an answer.

He gives. “That man was sent by my sister,” he states. “She intended for him to kill my brother and I in exchange for Riverrun.”

“Your…oh.”

“Mhm, yes. Cersei,” Jaime retorts before lamenting about Bronn’s trust in Cersei. So much so that Odile notices his fallen face.

“But what upsets you?” she asks. “He’s not a very good assassin if he told you what his intention was.”

“Ah. Odile…”

He relays the full story as he sways her along, praising his timing and ability to talk and dance. In his early lessons he was so focused on his footwork that he spent the whole time staring at the ground and at his feet, his forehead beaded with sweat. He’s gotten better. He can spin tales of his sister’s delusions and someone he once thought as a friend as his body intrinsically moves to the lute.

“Ser Jaime—”

“No, I’m not tired yet,” he promises. “See? I’ve gotten better. Wait till Brienne comes. You’ll see her. She—”

“ _Jaime_.”

Odile squeezes his arm, and though he has quite some height on her, he feels as though she’s as tall as Brienne. While the music still plays, she leads him off to the edge of the floor, other couples beginning to dance—even Lady Sansa. She draws a crowd. So much so that none see the tailor Odile, patting Jaime’s arm as he confesses he should have known this would happen—that she would have hunted him down. She wanted him hunted and she used someone he would have called friend to do it. He feels ill and he’s felt ill since it happened.

“Have you told Ser Brienne?”

He’s told Odile before talking to Bri always makes him feel better. But he shakes his head and admits he kept this secret to himself, because he’s a fool that’s why. Brienne knew something was wrong—of course she knew something was wrong—and it wasn’t though he fibbed, but—

“I evaded,” he reveals. “I told her it was one thing—which does bother me…that wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t everything. Half.”

“Three quarters.”

“Alright, three quarters.”

The hung lanterns illuminate Winter Town. They’re smaller stars against the real stars. It’s almost too bright. The music is almost too loud. If he wasn’t spinning earlier with Odile, he’s spinning now…and it’s not the dancing. He lied to Brienne, and she’s going to come to him tonight, spinning the sea with her long skirts, wanting to dance with her knight that loves her. It’s overwhelming. He’s falling, he’s falling, and—

Landing.

Brienne. She arrives with a flourish, for none, not even Lady Sansa are as vibrant as she. She takes breaths away as she gives life, and the more she satisfies him the more he craves. Others see her, Ser Brienne as moves and spins the sea. She’s never worn a dress before. Even so, it’s impossible not to recognize her within an instant. Who else has her height or her strength and pale hair? Who else has her eyes like the waters off the sapphire isle? _I’ll take you there one day,_ she says. She’s taken him already.

She nods at Lady Sansa, greets those who approach her. She blushes, and for a moment Jaime wonders how she’ll take the compliments, given from those who had to see her in a dress to see beauty. They didn’t see before. He’s ashamed he didn’t see it before either, but he smirks at himself—it took him less time than Bronn, or Wilhelm, Jon Snow, others in Winterfell. He knew she was beautiful before the dress. He gave her the dress not so others could see. Only herself, if she didn’t already know.

She did. And in the dress, she celebrates.

Odile gleams with pride at her work, and Jaime squeezes her shoulder. She should marvel—she knows Brienne almost as well as he does. To craft such a dress, one would have to know.

She tugs at his sleeve in between garbled statements of her mastery. “Jaime,” Odile says, “Fool. Don’t stand here. Go.”

“But how else would I thank you?”

Brienne stands before them, hand on her hip and gaze traveling between the two. Meet me at the party, she asked of him. He straightens in an attempt to make himself at least the same height as her, even as he’s filled with the shame that he didn’t run to her when he saw her. Odile and Brienne talk, Brienne grabbing Odile’s hand, regaling the same as Jaime’s thoughts, that Odile knew her. She shifts and the golden threads that make the sun on Brienne’s dress shimmer. The long sleeves taper well to the sinews of her arms. The neckline is a deep V, and as she moves he sees it—the scar from the bear.

He swallows…he should have thought, should have known. And yet she wears it so proudly, shows off that skin, that he’s not so ashamed anymore. The scars are part of her story, just as he is.

“Jaime.”

She takes his hand, grins at him. Her eyes and the dress are the same color. She wears a coronet in her hair, golden and studded with small jewels. “From Sansa,” she says when she notices him looking.

“Beautiful, my lady.”

“Ser,” she corrects, pulling him gently into her frame.

“Ser.”

The swift correction makes her chuckle. “Ser, or my lady. I was only teasing, you can call me either. I’m your lady, your knight, your lover. Yours.”

He echoes the word, yours. The word does more than solidify, it affirms what he makes himself to her, hers. I am yours Brienne, he says as they begin to dance. Not knowing how, but confident and unafraid, she takes him along to the fast pace of the dance. He dances without hearing the words. He lets Brienne make them as she pulls him in tighter to her frame, and he hears none of their laughter. It’s just him, and it’s her, carrying on with steps they wing within each and every step. He can’t hear anything except a song that plays, and suddenly it’s his favorite song in the world.

The truth hits, and he laughs. They shouldn’t be this good at dancing.

Brienne laughs with him. “I practiced,” she admits, and he spins her round. “Lady Sansa showed me a few things, but I don’t know if I caught on.”

“The key is pretending you know what you’re doing,” Jaime admits. That’s what Odile taught him. Truth to be told, he’s never heard better advice anywhere else.

“You’re right.”

He dances with her, dancing like they lead their lives: first she leads, and then he leads. They alternate, back and forth. It’s unconventional but it works for the two of them. And then, he can’t hear anymore laughter. But no one was even laughing to begin with.

Was it a fevered imagining? It’s so cold outside, but Brienne spins the sea and sunlight, and he’s warm in her arms, warmer still as she slows them to the gentle waltz the flutes play. She grasps his hand, his real hand, while the other arm remains wrapped awkwardly around her waist, gold pressing into the small of her back. When they were faster it wasn’t so bad—he didn’t feel as awkward. Now that they’re slow and she’d take him slower still, it reminds him of the first time they made love and how self-conscious he was, and how careful he was so the gold wouldn’t touch the skin. He drifts from her but in protest she pulls him closer. She doesn’t care. She wants him, Jaime and all that he is, even if part of him is nothing more than a ruse.

People do look. Tyrion is one, standing off to the side—though Jaime can see. He smiles at him. Sansa sees as well, and she nods in approval. Brienne finds home in him, so his home is here, Winterfell. He closes his eyes as she presses her forehead to his. They meet at the minds, understanding. It takes some effort considering their height difference, but she nestles her head against the crook of his neck. He protects. Sweet exchange, to comfort and have her comfort as well. How many have looked at her and mocked or made her feel unwelcome? How many have done the same to him? It doesn’t matter anymore. Now they all can watch, because they have found home.

_Oathbreaker._

He holds her harder still. Too hard, because she asks what’s wrong. They stop moving and her hands are cupping his face, asking him if he’s alright and they have to stop.

He shakes his head. He didn’t want to stop. Damn intrusive thoughts, but it’s true… _it’s true!_ Lying by omission, what kind of a lover is he? But how to tell her? How—

And there is Bronn, standing across the way. He catches Jaime’s eye. He raises his goblet, and he drinks it dry.

It’s cold.

“Jaime?”

He meets the sea. Holding her wrist, he grasps it hard, pleading before he speaks, saying “I want to leave, we should leave.”

“Leave? But Jaime, it’s not yet near time.”

“I want you,” he rasps, not a lie, never a lie. But it can also get them away from there.

“Have me.”

_“A bear, a bear, there was a bear….”_

They turn in unison to the singers and flute players. By primal instinct they are forced to dance, though Brienne leads and he follows. He hears but he doesn’t listen, only knowing the song means something to them and therefore they must dance. It’s the laughter near them that tips him off to the tune before the lyrics. It’s “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” that plays, and no doubt they ask questions about who is the bear and who is the maiden fair as Jaime and Brienne swirl. His heart is pounding as her skirt whips his legs. His mind shrieks her name and his sins, everything he’s ever done. It’s not enough that he’s moved on. He’s Cersei’s brother and he is haunted and haunted. He’s only known love from one woman and it’s tainted and not enough—

Not enough to give even when he can give everything. And, and—

Lips are like fire against his, kissing the tainted poison. It’s sweet to her. Others see. He feels as though they’ve fucked twice already in front of others, first when they sparred and now this, a kiss that tastes like fire and sea. The fire makes him want to continue dancing, but it’s the sea that does it—it compels him, pulls the words from him. “Brienne,” he mutters, “Brienne, I—”

“Take me away.”

“There’s something—”

Another kiss, more sea than fire. She pulls away, and when they’re a breath apart, she whispers, “take me away and tell me everything.”

So he does. What else can he do, but take her away? Home is where she is. Always.


	25. Urgency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very NSFW below...

They can barely make it back to their room before she pulls him into her arms. The kisses are senseless and almost mad with longing that one could have thought that they had never consummated their bond before. This is not the first time since their sexual relationship began that Jaime has gladly followed along to Brienne’s whims, but this is the first time she has been so urgent, so hungry. It makes him forget everything that happened, but in recalling how she makes him forget…

He remembers. It serves to kiss her harder and match her urgency. He doesn’t speak words of her beauty, but he speaks of her radiance between kisses. He wants to see her as much a he wants to feel her, thinking both seeing and feeling will be enough and he’ll be whole, and a Jaime that lives and is alive without his past. Just Jaime, a one-handed knight who’s absurdly in love and absurdly mad about Brienne of Tarth

What they do is a dance of another sort. While Brienne led them, Jaime begins the steps with him moving them to the edge of the bed. He wants to fall. They do fall, together, Jaime against the furs and Brienne on top of him, the skirt of her dress pooling around his legs. He caresses the scars from the bear that the V of the dress cannot hide. Once a mark that forever deemed his lateness, his folly in not insisting she come with him when he had the chance, he sees the scar now threw how Brienne sees it, a trophy of how he came back. He touches it with reverence, with love.

She mistakes it. She thinks it’s him beginning to take the dress off. It wasn’t what he intended. Tonight, he has the idea to make love to her another way.

“Brienne,” he mutters, breathless and reaching for her. lost and drunk off Brienne he can only ask her “kiss me,” but he prevents her from taking off her dress and receives a kiss that serves to bring him back to life, and stir him further. Hard before, he’s leaking now, Brienne so artful and nimble with her fingers she can both kiss him and cup his cheek with one hand while the other unlaces his breeches. He scoots them off, moves the skirts of her dress around and helps her with her undergarments. He waits for her, as it’s the theme of the night for him to follow her, but she waits to satisfy and quell hunger. He’s not completely unsatisfied—she keeps him encased, and she’s warm and he’s titillated and hungers for more, but she does not give him that extra edge, not until she takes his right arm and takes off the golden hand. And then he’s inside her, reeling, along the sea and with the sun.

Bluntly, they are a tangle of cloth and skin, sweating in the heat of her room as they fuck with their clothes on. The sight of her on top of him, dress pooling around her skirts is mesmerizing and erotic Jaime bites his lip, eager to prolong what they have. There’s a flash of Cersei, lifting up her long skirts to her hips and fucking her against the wall. It’s mad panic that makes his heart hammer—no, no, he’s never thought of Cersei before with Brienne—he curses, but Brienne is so lost she doesn’t know. He thanks everything she doesn’t know. And then, just when he thinks he’ll lose it, and he’ll have to tell her everything that he’s been hiding now, he happens to turn his head. He sees the two of them through the mirror—Brienne a goddess with painted red cheeks from making love, dress not hiding her form but extenuating, and it’s all blissful forgetfulness. It’s back to the movement, the tight and wet clench of her, and the kisses she leaves across his hands and arms that doesn’t only extend to the left. No, she doesn’t leave the other side with nothing. She takes his right arm, kisses the stump. At first he wouldn’t have taken it, wouldn’t have known how. He knows now he can take that love like all others.

It's one moment of tenderness amidst a fury. He’s wild and feral and after sweet kisses the room is filled with the primordial sounds of her hips meeting his paired with the sound of her slick wetness. She unleashes, and when he reaches past her skirts to finger her clit, she cries out. It’s so unholy and beautiful that he presses harder, circles her clit with a firm thumb. She cums, convulses around his cock, and when she collapses on top of him, reeling and spinning, their brows meet. Their foreheads are covered in sweat. He was on the verge of cumming himself, but the temporary halt halts his end. In the interim, her deft hands drift to the laces of his tunic. Cloth rips and he cares not, her fingers warm against his fevered skin. Paradise, and no. No. He remembers nothing, is nothing save this moment, save her kiss and save the sweet release. He was so urgent before—they were so urgent—but when she begins again, she’s slow. The waltz is gentle. She kisses him and he moans into her mouth, spilling inside her at last. It’s perfect, even after it’s over and she’s in his arms, clinging to him…

He is this moment. He is ever moment, present and alive, hungry and in love and fuck…he doesn’t keep secrets. He is a good man. He is everything Brienne thinks he is and he is what he wanted to be when he was a child dreaming of knights and he’s not Cersei’s and not Cersei’s and Brienne’s and his own and he is alive and drunk and he will—

“Bri…” he mutters, breathless, heaving, floating, “I lied.”

“I know.”

She peers at him, laying across him. She gives him a small grin as he stares, blank. “How?” he mutters, breathless.

“The other night. You didn’t seem yourself, that’s all. I knew it was something.” She clings to the strings of his shirt, pleading even before her face twists away from their previous bliss of making love. “Jaime,” she states. “Do not lie. You are my lover. Lovers do not lie.”

“I didn’t lie. I withheld. I tried to tell you earlier, but—”

“Then why did you say you lied?”

He sighs. “Sweetling, we can debate on what lying is and isn’t. In truth I’m not sure if I even know, but I promise, I will always tell you what ails me from now on.”

Her brows furrow. “You don’t have to—"

“You want to know? Alright. Alright. Kissing you is like fire. Making love to you is indescribable. You minx. You are radiant. In a dress, in armor, without clothes, in my arms…”

“No flattering. Tell me. Tell—"

“Cersei sent Bronn to kill Tyrion and I.”

Her face is blank and he stupidly goes on, knowing it’s stupid but doing it anyway, because words are better than her silence. “I am the father of all her children,” he says, “and she sent an assassin after me. And here I am, covered in sweat after making love to you, and—”

But words are not better than silence, and when wordless Brienne rises from his arms, he understands further. Still straddling him, she stares below at him. But there can be silence later, and even more, but he can’t stop it yet. It’s now or never. And that is how he tells her…that he left his sister in King’s Landing, even though she was pregnant. He says it all, everything and not enough.

He holds her still. “I left Cersei to die even though she was pregnant, and I realized I wanted you after we survived, and I stayed with you because you make me feel good,” he mutters, sad. And there it is, all his sins, his confessions. It is everything he withheld. He spouts on that yes he was also thinking about Tyrion the other night…he wants his brother to love him still, but he can’t admit he lied about Tysha all those years ago. But Tyrion is also leaving soon, and should he keep the lie, or should he confess and risk giving up with what was lost? He doesn’t know. He should take care of his family and be truthful.

All of his family.

That’s his confession. Those are his sins. His redeemer, Brienne, the woman he loves is on top of him, listening. He is staring up at her, covered in sweat after making love. He waits for her words, waits for her everything.

He takes back everything. He doesn’t like silence. Not until he realizes the silence would have been better than her ragged, pained words, words that demand if that’s why he never wanted her pregnant…because of Cersei.

He clenches with fear, everything falling. “That’s…Brienne…sweetling, no!”

He grabs her hips, but she doesn’t respond in turn. She tries to get up and off of him. He rises and tries to hold her, and though she relents the attempt is only halfhearted. She’s in the place between numbness and defiance. He damn well knows she could pull him off and toss him to the ground if she so chooses, but she doesn’t, so he holds her face in her hands and tells her he has failed as a father with all his children. He was never there. He can’t do that again. He doesn’t say he’s running away from it now with his sister’s child now, or that part of him despises himself for it, but he reiterates that he has failed before and to fail again with something so precious as a child that belongs to both him and his Brienne…

He couldn’t. But Brienne, easing, wrapping her arms around him…she holds his bearded face in her hands and kisses him tenderly. His eyes are still closed when she parts sweetly. “You’re not a failure Jaime,” she whispers. “But I understand.”

He peeks at her. “Do you?”

She kisses him again. “Always.”

He can’t say how long they cling to each other after. It’s still not enough.


	26. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Writing for school has sucked a lot of my free time. But I'm still writing these dorks! :D

Brienne clutches the letter. When Sansa handed it to her that morning, Brienne made sire to wait until after the war council, or else her thoughts would have been elsewhere. Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, and the rest of her followers depart for King’s Landing the next morning, and as it was, during the meeting Brienne was already elsewhere before she glanced at the envelope and saw the sigil engraved on the sealing wax.

Elsewhere, with Jaime, wherever he was. Preoccupied, lost. As lovers do—or she thinks in this brief gap of time they’ve been lovers—when one is struggling, the other takes part of their struggle whether it can mitigate part of the pain, or not. When Jaime told her his plan that morning before they departed, his hand shook so much as he fastened on the golden hand that Brienne had to help him. He sighed deeply, looking at their feet, and all she wanted was to take all his struggles away, and if it had to be, if someone had to feel them, she hoped it would be her.

That’s not how it works.

Hours after, hidden away in the furthest corner of the great hall, she clutches her father’s letter and her heartbeat thumps.

“Ser Brienne.”

She greets Podrick with a curt nod, stuffing the letter in the pocket of Jaime’s cloak (he’s wearing hers, as always. She’d call it his cloak by now, but he’s under an illusion that by calling it his cloak instead of hers, the magic will be lost.) Brienne catches Pod’s narrow glance, but she pretends like she didn’t just stuff a letter away, casually reaching for a goblet of wine.

“It’s empty my lady.”

It’s unfortunately too late—Brienne brings the cup to her lips and makes the discovery as soon as Pod tells her. “You didn’t notice it was lighter?” he asks, Brienne opting for a piece of bread instead.

Pod frowns. “You hardly drink anyway. What’s going on?” He leans in, and lowly asks, “is it Ser Jaime?”

“No. I mean—not all. I—”

She sighs, pulling out the letter from her pocket. Pod takes it, and when he sees the sigil engraved on the sealing wax, his brows raise.

“Your father? Isn’t this a good thing?”

“I suppose.”

“Well here, read it.”

He hands it to her. She takes it with some reluctance, glances at the sigil, then makes the final decision by sticking it back in her pocket. Pod raises his eyebrows.

“Later,” she states. “I’ll tell you tomorrow what it says.”

He protests as she rise. “My lady—”

“Good night Pod.”

Brienne escapes to her room, closing the door behind her and undressing methodically, though she leaves the letter in the pocket of Jaime’s cloak. She sits, thinking of reading a novel while she waits for Jaime, but after she bundles up, her gaze keeps flitting back to the letter. Back and forth, as if it’s some sort of game they’re playing.

She gets up and takes out the letter. She imagines her father, sitting in his study, choosing every word with care, because he always told her to choose her words with care. He sent the letter thinking she’d read it immediately, not sit with a book while the letter remained in her lover’s coat.

He doesn’t know about Jaime, does he? All those parties he had for her, hoping there would be at least one man that would at least be allured by the Sapphire Isle, and all she has to show for it is Jaime.

She smirks to herself. He was worth the wait.

Sighing, she glides back to her coat and opens the letter before she can think twice about it. _Dear Brienne,_ it begins, followed by the lamenting of the passage of time, the slight dig that she didn’t write to him and inform him she was alive after the battle of Winterfell, and then…

_Come back home._

Come back home? Once she would have said Tarth was home, but only the blue of it’s water. Every other place was marked by a memory she’d rather forget—the stable boy sneering at her, the parties with the many, many suitors who refused a dance. There was some good, yes. Training with her teacher, the dance with Renly. And that’s not to say she can’t make sure the bad memories are wiped away to be replaced with good.

But she made a promise to Catelyn. Sansa is in Winterfell, Arya is in Winterfell. Even if Sansa allowed her to travel back, (which she is sure she would.) she’d never forgive herself if something happened while she was away. She’s lived her life so devoted…to Renly, to Catelyn and then Sansa, and Jaime. Her father was first, but he taught her to make her own path.  
But she wants to go back. And she wants her lover to be there with her. She wants to show him.

She starts penning a letter by the fire. _Father,_ it begins. _I’ll try to come back home, but I am sworn to serve Lady Sansa. I gave her mother a vow, and…it’s a long story. I’m sorry for not writing. I am._  
 _I love someone now. His name is Jaime._

She caresses the page. Jumbled thoughts she has, but she writes them down never the less. _He infuriated me at first, and he’s sometimes stubborn, but he’s told me he loves me, like I love him. I do love him Father, truly. He’s kind and sometimes he’s too hard on himself, but he’s brave. I think he’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. And—_

“Brienne.”

She sticks the paper underneath her—absurdly, but she can’t have Jaime see such paltry and saccharine words. He calls her “wench,” and the name jolts her back to reality. He doesn’t call her that often—only when he’s in a playful mood, or when he’s trying to distract her.

“Kingslayer,” she counters.

He throws his cloak onto the bed, strolls back to the chair adjacent to her. He’s been drinking, she can tell by his gait and blurred eyes. He also takes his “Kingslayer,” title better, much better than he would have sober.

She feels guilty in an instant, especially as he waits for her, tapping his fingers against his thigh, lips pressed together. He waits for her to ask what happened, she knows.

But maybe he should ask her what’s wrong with her. It’s obvious something is on her mind. She isn’t usually so pensive or quiet. Is this really how it’s going to be? Are they going to stare at each other wondering who is going to talk first all night?

It’s Jaime. “My brother was…surprised,” he says.

“You told him about Tysha?”

Jaime nods. “He was…mad. Never suspected I would have kept it a secret all these years, that Tysha loved him.” He closes his eyes. “Brienne…Bri. What I took part in was—”

“You were young,” she tells him. “Your father gave you an order. I understand…I would have done what my father ordered me to do too.” And yet look what I’ve done all these years.

“You didn’t ask.”

Brienne’s cheeks turn red. Why is she ashamed she didn’t ask? Must she have even asked? But her thoughts are broken when Jaime shakes his head and tells her to ignore him—it was a stupid comment. He shouldn’t have said it.

She still tries to salvage. “Did your brother get better?”

“I suppose.” He shrugs. “We drank some.”

She bites her lip. He’s feigning, she knows it. “Jaime… are you upset?”

“No. Why should I be upset? If Cersei doesn’t relent—and of course she won’t because she’s Cersei—she’ll die. And…”

She curses inwardly. The baby, of course the baby. She didn’t forget. It’s always somewhere on her mind, the fact that Jaime has one last child with his former lover and there’s nothing she can do about it. And there she is, pregnant and waging a war, and the Dragon Queen has stated she’d do anything, anything…

Would Daenerys do that? Cersei must be visibly pregnant by now. Would she see Cersei and kill her if she saw? The child didn’t do anything.

“My brother says she’s kind,” Jaime says, somehow sensing what Brienne was thinking. “I have no reason to disbelieve him. She helped us here, didn’t she? But my sister…she’s cruel. She—”

He stops himself. Brienne watches him—he makes a fist and balls the fabric of his breeches in his hands.

“She won’t give up,” he says, finally.

Brienne swallows. “Didn’t she love her children?”

“She never wanted to talk about Tommen. She said there was nothing to discuss.” He leans back. “There was everything to discuss. That day at the Sept she made sure he wouldn’t be there. She wanted to protect him. Bri…I should have left her then. Left her and taken him with me. But now…I can, I—”

“You’re not going. You’re staying.”

He stares. The fire in her own voice had surprised her, but whatever surprise that was is no match for now. She knows him. Just as easily as she can see the wheels turning in her head, she can see his.

Like his mad scheme to come to Winterfell even though he could have been alright and alive in the Red Keep. He took the risk due to mad loyalty, due to her.

It didn’t kill him last time.

But she can’t take that risk again.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she says. “You’re staying here with me.”

“Why can’t you trust me?”

Poems and songs she could have so easily composed mere moments ago fade away. He hasn’t damned her, she damned herself, even as she tries to promise it’s not about trust, it’s about survival.

“You’d think I leave you? My last…well. You know. I’ve told you. I can’t do that again. I won’t. But Brienne…I have a child.”

“I know that,” she says through gritted teeth, hating this—this jealousy. It tastes like ashes, wanting to be just as pretty as the other girls, and it tastes worst now, wanting something that foul woman has that Jaime won’t give her.

“Am I really supposed to stay idle while that happens?” Jaime asks, breaking her thoughts. “You know me.”

“It’s not about not trusting. Jaime—”

She nearly flies from her chair to his side. She kneels, tentative to touch him, to rest her hands on his thighs. Not too long ago she grabbed him so unashamedly in bed—parts of him and parts of a man you’d never even imagine touching in normal life suddenly being everything in passion. The man has touched her everywhere and yet they’ve become strangers. All because she wants him alive.

Fire gleans. He stares at it, like it can give him all the answers she can’t. She touches him and grasps him to reclaim what she easily lost and took away.

“Jaime,” she calls. “Jaime…”

The desperation to have him back. It’s what makes her whisper it.

“Go.”

His eyes meet her, mad and on fire. “What?”

“Go…with your brother,” she says, looking at the ground. “If you want. I trust you.”

“But I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. I want—”

“Then why are you—”

“I want to go back, change thing…but I can’t. I—"

He breaks the divide and they embrace. It’s a deluge of kisses and caresses, warmth. He wants to change the past, that’s the problem. He can’t and he’s living with it, trying to be better. But it’s hard. She takes some of that, prays that she can mitigate some of his pain. She can’t but she tries.

They don’t make love that night, and Brienne thinks she wouldn’t want to. She likes them right where they are, not perfect in the slightest, but them. Alive.

She doesn’t want them perfect—she wants them as them.

The truth is bitter. They’re not them.

She tells him her father wrote to her. They talk of visiting, if Sansa will let her. Is his heart in it? Does he want to go, or is he distracting himself, thinking of his brother and his sister and his child, and what hasn’t happened but may happen. But does he have the emotional energy to tell her? Is it easier for him to act and pretend? He’s pretended he hasn’t cared for so long that it must be more natural than accepting the truth…that he does care, that he cares too much, that he loves too much. She’s to blame too. She can’t face it either. It would be too hard.

So she falls asleep to the dream of the two of them on the Sapphire Isle. It’s easy. And when she wakes up and finished writing to her father, she leaves out the fact that she loves Jaime so much, but she’s worried she doesn’t trust him.


	27. Ghosts

He lays by his lover’s side at night and idly touches her curves and her hair, and she takes it with ardor and joy. She basks in being touched gently, basks in sleeping near his side. _It’s easier now_ , she says, to sleep by someone’s side and expect to see them in the morning, expect to be greeted by kisses and accept those kisses. All unsaid is that it was because of him. He helped her realize how easy it is to be loved, and how good it feels.

 _The same,_ he replies. _The same for me_.

But he jests as well, says he can handle all of her, all that she is and all that she wants. Except for the heat.

He grins when she laughs and pins herself atop him. Firelight suits her curves and contours, and he ends up missing it when eventually, it isn’t so cold outside anymore, and they don’t need the fire. The outside land is less brown as well. It isn’t quite green and spring-like as he accustomed to, but it still promises something new.

Somehow, he thinks it would have been easier had it remained eternal winter. It wouldn’t have reminded him of what passes as the weeks pass. Greta, Odile’s niece, reminds him when he sees her in the training yard. Not even fair-haired and she reminds him of what he lost and what he’s going to lose if he stays and does nothing. She didn’t before, not that he recalls, but there is something that’s happening now in his sad heart that makes him refrain from speaking to her. It’s cruel, he knows it, to refrain from showing her what to do with a sword like he did before, but he cannot kneel down and look into her eyes, and wonder what it is that he loses as he stays in the North. Instead, he’s takes to watching Brienne hover above her, kneeling down to her level and showing her the proper form for holding a sword and other matters. Brienne is good with her, gentle.

He aches.

Days pass. He passes outside of time like an old cog removed from a clock. Odile isn’t cruel like he can be cruel when he’s not actively trying to be a better man, but she notices his apathy, even points it out when he comes back to her shop to pick up the cloak she mended for him. He decides that either she and Brienne are the same or it’s a habit of womanhood, but both feel the need to tell him it’s not exactly healthy.

(But now that he thinks of it, did Cersei ever notice or comment upon his times of apathy?)

 _You’re not here, Ser Jaime,_ she says, continuing her speech. _And my niece says you weren’t as happy today. You didn’t even put up a fight when you spared like you usually do. You hardly even talk to her._

_I’m here._

She stares, unblinking, unmoving. “You’re not here Jaime.”

If he’s still an old cog, it’s as if Odile takes him and attempts to screw him back in the machinery. She’s stubborn too, talking about how she understands what he’s going through, and it’s alright, but he should learn to confide in those who care for him. She cares for me, he thinks, and he wants to scream at her that she shouldn’t, he’s not worth it. He’s stuck between two Jaimes and cannot commit to one life or the other. Odile can tell he drifts as she speaks too—her eyes waver and she looks at her feet. And Jaime tosses the cloak over his shoulders, pays her an extra ten gold for the simple job.

Yet as he bids farewell, his hand on the door, turning it, she asks him to stay.

He turns, puzzled but accommodating. “Yes?”

She’s about to go to him, but she remains where she is. “Jaime means I love.”

He cocks his head. “What? I mean I love? What does that mean?”

She chuckles softly. “Your name. Jaime. I was reading. Your name was once old common tongue for ‘I love.” Je for I, and aime for love. I love.”

“I doubt my mother and father knew that,” he mutters.

“Maybe they did. Either way, the name fits.”

“You think I love?”

Inwardly he calls her green and too hopeful, but the thought must have been written across his face. “Think me naïve, or call me too vulnerable,” she states, voice deepening, posture straightening, and she’s as tall Brienne. “but I think you’re worth more than you think. I know what you must be feeling, but—”

“So you think I’m being what I’m supposed to be by staying here too?”

She falls. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that your name fits you. You love. You do. You love so much, and you care so much. You also can put on an act that you don’t…even though I have no idea why. It’s not so bad to love and to care. Is it?”

Moments pass. Moments of thinking and images of Brienne, Greta, Odile, his brother…

And then he asks her, “come here.”

Odile blinks. “Jaime…”

“Come here, please.”

She drifts to his side. He wraps his arms around her in a warm and brotherly embrace, and he doesn’t let go until she laughs and says she’s squeezing him too tight. Even when the embrace breaks, he puts his good hand on her shoulder and looks into her eyes. “You should learn to fight too,” he says before amending that Brienne would be the one to do it. She’s like that, and Odile would be a fine student.

“But won’t you be there too?”

“You’re a good woman Odile,” he replies, uneasy at first but regaining his footing. “You see the good in people, and you know...somehow…how to make clothes that really…show the person—I suppose…sorry, bad with words.” He ruffles his hair in awkwardness. “That’s why I call Brienne so many names I think. Ser, sweetling…wench—but only sometimes…I…”

“Jaime.”

“What I mean to say,” he says, regaining himself. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

He thinks she wants to say something else, but whatever it is, she keeps it to herself. He embraces her again, only parting when he thinks she’d tell him what he knows she’s thinking. Sometimes words are better left unsaid.

Brienne finds him in Winter Town. She wraps her arms around him and he’s reminded of the night of the solstice. Sweet memories he wants to go back to, live in forever.

“I thought you’d be here,” she says.

“You know me so well.”

Lightly, she pets the cloak, silently thanking him for having Odile mend it. He grasps her hand on his shoulder. Her lower lip quivers, and he takes her in his arms and embraces her in lieu of words. He has some childish notion that if he squeezes her hard enough, they won’t have to talk about what happened, they won’t have to remember it, and they can live, live gloriously and innocently. If he squeezes her hard enough, he can be only Jaime, and not Jaime Lannister.

He doesn’t want dinner when she asks, and when he tells her “go, eat, eat, I’ll be there in our room later,” she shakes her head and follows him. He even offers her his hand, but teases her too. “One last chance,” he says before opening the door. She smirks and pins him to the door. They kiss in his favorite way—the way that allows him to feel her smile between and during. She gently tosses him at the edge of the bed, his lioness, his exhibitionist (if only for him) in front of the mirror, beautiful, just, brave Brienne.

But his favorite is the after, the holding, the gentle drum of her fingertips against his fevered skin. “You know what Odile told me?” she asks, grinning at herself and her enhanced skills at pillow talk that she’s developed since the time they’ve been lovers. “She told me your name means love.”

“She told me the same,” he muses.

“There’s a story about that. I know. I’ve been reading.”

She props herself up, girlishly brings her knees up with a cheeky smile. “There’s a story about a brave knight named Ser Jaime, whose love saved the other fair knight.”

“Let me guess who wrote such a tale. Ser Brienne?”

She nods, that devious and sly smile still plastered on. Was she even trying to pretend it was real? It matters not. It’s their story and their rules. They make it as they want.

The held gaze is often depicted in romances, both in visual art and the written word, the part where both parties gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, sometimes with desire. In his real life, with

Brienne, Jaime has found that most often, it’s not with lustful desire, but a desire to see the other person deeply. Know their soul.

She inches down next to him in their bed, pressing her cheek against the fur pillow. His hand drapes across her hip.

“I think in that tale though,” she mutters, “Ser Jaime stays with Ser Brienne, even though she trusts him, and knows there’s something he wants to do.”

“Bri…”

“Jaime…” She sweeps a gentle hand over his cheek. She presses herself closer. Their bodies entwine. “I know you. I trust you.”

He can think of nothing else to say other than “I love you, so much.” She already knows it to be true, but it’s enough. Brienne has always appreciated the simple things, thought of them as enough.

“I love you too,” she says. “That’s why…”

She closes her eyes, presses herself closer still. “That’s why I won’t stop you.”

“Come with me.”

As soon as he says it, he takes it back. Why Jaime? She asks. Why did you take it back? He starts with the obvious. She has a duty to Catelyn Stark, to protect her daughters, and he knows all about that, about duty. But beyond that, this is his one to save.

“Don’t you know all about knights?” he asks. “We have our duties. Our people we’re loyal too.”

“Do you intend to save Cersei?”

He picks up her chin. “My child. I’m loyal to her.”

Her brows furrow. “Her?”

“A suspicion,” he admits. “I’m loyal to her. To you.”

She caresses his cheek. “You’ll come back,” she whispers, kissing his nose—the first thing she can reach. Then, she kisses his forehead, and finally his lips.

“You have to,” she mutters, kissing him again. “You see…my father already wrote back. He would be extremely cross with you if you didn’t return.”

“And you…” He strokes her hair. “Would be crosser still.”

She turns serious, gripping onto him tightly. Let her make marks with her fingers, he thinks. Let her fingers mark into my skin so I remember…

“Jaime Lannister, if you die…I swear I’ll kill you myself. I’ll—”

“Sweetling…”

Once, Jaime used to think the elaborate won in the art of lovemaking. Take her, illustriously swoop her off her feet. It’s not true—not always. (Sometimes there’s fun in the illustriously elaborate.) But there’s nothing elaborate in how they make love again this time. No tricks. They don’t even so much as switch positions. When he tries even, she pulls her leg over him, keeping him where it is. Yet neither is their lovemaking a mechanical act of base need. It’s an extension of their goodbye kisses, a reminder. Her hands all over his skin remind, her legs over his remind, the way he buries his face in the crook of her neck reminds. He doesn’t feel less than what he is or more than he should be. Just happy. That’s all he ever wanted to be—happy and in love with a wonderful, thrilling, and alive woman.

He stays in her arms after, sleeps with their limbs entwinned, and when he wakes come morning, he wakes to the sapphire isles of her eyes. There are love songs in her eyes, songs he hasn’t heard all of yet.

“Did you sleep?” he asks, because the last thing he remembers before he fell was Brienne caressing him gently, and the blue of her eyes. He wakes to the same image.

“No.”

“Brienne…”

She sighs. “I.,.I…I wanted to be with you longer. Until—”

Her voice cracks. He presses his forehead to hers, tastes the tears as they fall. It’s enough to want to stop him. He’ll stay, he will. But—

She wants him to go.

“Go,” she whispers. “I know what would happen if you didn’t. I know—”

Regret would make him more ghost than Jaime. She knows that, he knows that. He still sees the love songs in her eyes when he parts. One last kiss his sweet goodbye and sweet ending and beginning. But there are both love songs, and songs of melancholy. The song of a knight and fair lady both, mourning the departure, mourning for a knight. He’s always been a ghost.

“Come back,” she says, and he vows it to be so. He’s a knight. He is true to his vows and promises.

The ghost wants eternal songs of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to retell season 8's Jaime x Brienne arc with a better outcome, and that's still what this fic is, though I'm only alluding to other events and things like that. To see what stays the same and what changes, stay tuned <3


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